


The Mirror

by Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon



Category: Mirror!DS9 - Fandom, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Mirror Universe
Genre: Abandoned Planet, Alien physiology, Angry Doods Are Angry, Cardassian anatomy is WEIRD AF, Delusions, Dependent On Each Other And Pissed About It, Enemies to Lovers, Kukalaka Smuggles Supplies for the Terran Rebels, M/M, Murderous Ghosts, Nature Is Trying to Kill Them, Phobias, Poor Ressikan flute, Power Struggle, Some nifty Mirror!Cameos, Survival, The Gul Has Some Non-Con(ish) Fantasties, Who wants to be rescued anyway?, possessive characters, this story just got explicit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:05:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8413102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon/pseuds/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon
Summary: What if Gul Garak and Captain Bashir were stranded together on an uninhabited M-class planet in the Mirror!Universe?The Gul has no one to try and kill except Bashir and Bashir has no one to take his rage out on other than Garak.But they need each other alive more than they want each other dead.An alternate take on the Mirror!Verse timeline.





	1. Chapter 1

There was an ancient Terran fairy tale that started _Marley was dead: to begin with._

A million, billion years ago--so long that Captain Bashir thought it must only be a trick of his brain and surely not a _memory_ \--someone had told him the tale.

He couldn’t remember anything about it, except _Marley was dead: to begin with_.

Well, it definitely suited his current situation because the Klingon was dead to begin with.

Very dead.

Not that Bashir usually concerned himself much with any _one_ dead Klingon. He’d rather see the savages decapitated, disemboweled, dismembered, and smoldering in a huge, fetid Klingon funeral pyre.

He wanted them _all_ dead.

But this Klingon being dead to begin with was important for the very fact that its corpse was impaled on the broken navigational console. And that meant Captain Bashir _couldn’t fucking fly this junkheap of a Cardassian scout ship_ anywhere.

He slammed his hands against the inner hull of the ship and shouted with such rage that it vibrated the very air, leaving the sound ringing back in his ears. He might as well be the same beast that now blocked his escape.

If only Jadzia were…

_Well, she_ isn’t _,_ hissed the dark voice inside his brain--the growing terror and anger that pushed out all other thoughts.

It was Jadzia that was dead to begin with. The Klingon had simply followed, like all others.

Bashir gave in to more enraged howling that swiftly morphed into wailing and then sobs. Furious sobs that fed back into more fury. He might have screamed himself into oblivion if a weak sound from the back of the destroyed vessel hadn’t reached his ears.

“Quit with the noise…”

And then:

“Some of us...are trying to… die… in peace.”

Bashir flung himself away from the hull and charged toward the small sleeping quarters. The doors had not shut fully, there was enough of a crack to stick his foot through. What little power remained went to life support, which struggled and failed, to keep the stench of Klingon blood from overwhelming the small space.

With battle-honed strength, Bashir forced the doors apart, shouting and straining and loving the burn of his muscles as the doors finally gave. The only time he ever felt half-way normal was when he labored, and even then...

The Cardassian met his gaze, full of glazed-over hatred, and something like bitter amusement. He was bleeding from his side, but at least he wasn’t impaled on anything of particular value to the captain. Julian spat at him and turned away.

“You’d rather shout, alone, up there, than watch the great Gul Garak die in front of you?” the Cardassian sneered.

“I don’t need to _watch_ you die,” Bashir said. “I just need you dead.” He reached for his phaser, remembered he’d lost it, swore. With another frustrated grunt he kicked the bunk molded into the wall.

It wouldn’t have helped anyway, incinerating the Cardassian. The _Gul_. ‘The Great Gul Garak.’ Bashir would have raged as he lifted the phaser, raged as the man’s skin burnt away, raged as he was left alone with a pile of ashes. Nothing would change the fact that _she_ was gone and _he_ was trapped here with a busted alien ship, a Klingon corpse, and a dying Cardassian prisoner. No way off this unfamiliar planet.

“Why not use some of that energy to finish me off?” Garak offered, almost affably. And Bashir wanted to do it. Oh, how he wanted to do it. He shouldn’t, though. He needed to think. He couldn’t think and kill at the same time.

But years of forced labor had taught Bashir to take the small pleasures when they came. He’d never been good at denying his urges.

Temper got the better of Julian’s judgement and he kicked the Gul. _Hard_.

What he hadn’t expected-- _fuck_ \--was that even wounded, the Cardassian was faster and stronger than he was. Even wounded, he could still anticipate the second blow, could stop it between outstretched hands, could redirect Bashir’s energy.

Bashir was thrown off balance; the momentum of the halted kick sending him sprawling. He didn’t stay down. He lunged at Garak and Garak came at him.

They tore at each other with bloodlust and fury. Angry, uncoordinated blows landed hard but haphazardly. Bashir clawed for the man’s ice-blue eyes and got his hand bitten almost to the bone. It was a scraping, brawling mess of a fight. Like drunkards trying to murder each other on the floor of a bar.

Blood gushed from Bashir’s hand and more trickled into his face from a cut over his eye. His body ached, but he gave as good as he got. Julian found the bloody spot in the Cardassian’s side--the place where he must have been injured in their crash landing--and he went deep with his elbow. Garak howled in pain and Bashir felt the sting of claws and the iron-strong grip of arms around him, squeezing him until he felt like his ribs would crack and he couldn’t draw air into his deflating lungs. Still he fought. Squirming, kicking, struggling.

Harder… Harder… Until…

_Let him kill you, Julian._ Oh, cruel black voice. _What do you have left to live for anyway?_  
His vision blurred and all he could smell was the Cardassian’s sweat and his blood and the general horrid musk of the man. He would die here, in this _stench_. But fuck his mind for thinking he would give in gently. He’d been born to the stink of the mines, and he would not die in the mire of Cardassian odors without a fight.

Bashir had just barely managed to twist, barely managed to gulp in a breath of hot air, when his ribs finally snapped and his face was covered by a cool, leathery palm.

With a few last weak struggles, more like death throws than the grappling of a fighter hardened by years of slavery, injustice, and survival, Julian lost the fight.

Everything went black.

And Bashir was dead: to begin with.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This is my first time posting a fic online-- Eep!
> 
> I don't know why Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" popped into my head when I started this, except I do love that first line. I figured any Terran story would seem like a fairy tale after the crap Bashir's gone through.


	2. Chapter 2

Or not.  
  
Bashir let out a mighty groan that sounded not unlike a dying animal. Coughing, he banged his fists hard against the ground because _fuck_ coughing hurt. And breathing hurt. And laying hurt. Every part of him __hurt.  
  
He’d been injured before--by Bajorans, Klingons, and Cardassians alike. He’d fought his own kind, too. Been ambushed for his rations, been laid out flat for disagreeing with the wrong person. Bashir had almost begun to believe he was immune to pain.  
  
But _this_? This fucking _hurt_.  
  
Maybe Bashir was getting soft. That made him chuckle--which hurt too.  
  
So, maybe he wasn’t dead. Or he was dead and this was hell: the inside of a now scorching hot, now reeking alien vessel.  
  
God, he’d thought Klingons smelled bad when they were _alive_.  
  
Where the fuck was Garak?  
  
Probably watching from the shadows as with every ounce of will, stubbornness, and tenacity he possessed, Bashir clawed his way over to the bunk. He roared in pain and frustration as the effort tore his wounds open anew.  
  
By the time he reached the thin mattress with its metal-fiber blanket, sweat rolled down his face and matted his long hair to his skull. He was groggy and aching.  
  
That wasn’t the worst of it.  
  
He still had to get on his feet.  
  
Julian Bashir had never been squeamish. As a child in the mines, he’d witnessed a man’s eye being gouged out by a Klingon guard, and Bashir had gone right on eating his watery rations. But, that didn’t mean he hadn’t internalized the experience, hadn’t added the transgression to the fiery ball of rage burning in the pit of his stomach.  
  
The one-eyed man had been his companion in spirit when he’d killed his first Klingon. But nothing had ever kept Bashir from a meal.  
  
So, when he grabbed hold of the mattress with both hands, dug blood-crusted fingers in so deep they touched the frame, and hoisted himself up--Bashir _did not swoon_. His stomach roiled, but he kept the bile down. His knees held firm even as every part of him shook, even as his right forearm, which must have been fractured in the fight, snapped. The sound was wet and meaty.  
  
No, he didn’t swoon, but he howled at the torture of it, and he took this new pain and this new rage, and he added them to that ball in his stomach.  
  
He was going to find the Gul. He was going to murder the Gul. He was going to turn the sonofawhore into a hideous pair of Cardassian skin boots and then Julian would fucking wear those boots every day for the rest of his life.  
  
Right after he found his bag.  
  
And maybe shoved the bones of his forearm back into place.  
  
****  
  
_An auspicious beginning,_ Gul Garak thought bitterly.  
  
He’d only managed to trudge two kilometers from his starting position before the pervasive cold and his wounds forced him to turn around.  
  
The analgesics he’d found in the Terran’s bag did very little to take the edge off the ache. But he was made of stern stuff--pain was only a minor inconvenience. The _cold_ was much more of a threat.  
  
M-Class? _Inhabitable?_ That was subjective.  
  
Garak leaned awkwardly against a rock near the damaged vessel, considering his options and doing his best to soak up the little warmth the sun afforded. He could climb back into the too small vessel, or he could freeze to death out here.  
  
Neither option was particularly appealing. It was the difference between joining the ghosts in their tomb or becoming one.  
  
The ship suddenly hissed and the hatch began to open. For a moment, it seemed like the gaping door might hang suspended, but then the sound of metal scraping against metal rent the air and the door stuttered, jerked, and crashed hard to the ground. Bits of plant debris were cast into the sky and drifted like purple plumes.  
  
Garak waited, anticipating the ghosts that would emerge.  
  
Kordd was dead. And Garak had mistakenly assumed from the crack of Terran bones and the way the savage shuddered to stillness underneath his hand that _it_ was dead as well.  
__  
He was sure the _living_  captain, now stumbling drunkenly from the ship, would laugh if he knew that the mighty Gul Garak had been resting against this rock for the better part of an hour--trying to soak up as much sun as possible to rid the frigid lethargy from his arms and legs.  
  
If he hadn’t lost so much damn blood, he could have carried on. But as it was...  
  
Cold was such a trivial thing to “humans.” Oh, there were temperatures that would kill them, of course. In fact, watching a Terran rebel freeze to death from the balmy comfort of a viewing room was always a treat. But on the whole, they handled fluctuations in temperature better than he did.  
  
The ambient temperature of this too-cheerfully painted planet was proving more dire a threat to Garak than his former captor’s weak fists.  
  
He laughed, drawing the attention of the lumbering Terran who spotted him, glared, and lurched forward.  
  
He looked like a malfunctioning android, the way he stiffly moved.  
  
“I see you've returned for more.” Garak baited. “Terrans are such _fools._ ”  
  
“Where's...my...bag?” Each word came out on a strangled breath and sweat beaded the man’s brow.  
  
Ah, the bag. Not much inside. A dirty brown rag, meager medical supplies, a flask of something foul smelling, and a holographic image of a Trill woman. Oh, and his identification.  
  
_Captain Julian Bashir_.  
  
“There’s nothing left you’d want.”  
  
A sneer contorted the captain’s face and he lunged at Garak with far less grace and skill than his earlier efforts. If Garak had been anywhere near full strength, he would have deflected and killed him with minimal effort. But he was still _cold_ and sluggish.  
  
The Terran shouted slurs at him, all manner of uncivilized human tongue, and tried to land his laughable blows. Garak managed to catch his fists--despite the chaotic way Bashir moved--and dug his fingers into the back of the human’s hands. With just a bit more effort he could snap the bones in his fingers.  
  
“You...give...her... _back_ …” Bashir ground out, trying to jerk away, contorting, howling as Garak twisted his arm which crunched sickeningly and bent in an inhuman way. It was the most pathetic sight. “I want… I want… her...back…”  
  
Her? Ah. The holo-image. The Trill.  
  
“I fear I have no idea what you’re referring to,” Garak said, his eyes growing heavy. A blow he was not quick enough to dodge connected with his thick shin. It wasn’t enough to do real damage, but it unbalanced him. He slid from the rock and dragged the broken Terran down with him.  
  
It was during the fall that he noticed how WARM Captain Bashir was.  
  
As warm as an early summer night on Cardassia Prime.  
  
Garak responded to that warmth with a visceral need. He wanted to tear Bashir open, claw his way inside, and live in the heat until his whole core was recharged. Ah, but if he split the human stem to stern and wrapped up in him like a blanket, the heat would eventually bleed away with the man’s life.  
  
Killing was one of Garak’s _finest_ pleasures--assuming he could delay gratification long enough. He was a bit quick on the trigger of a Cardassian phaser, he had to admit, and that was something of a failing.  
  
Options, options. The thrill of bloody murder and temporary relief from the cold? Or...  
  
If Garak _kept_ him, if he made the beast __his prisoner, then fleas and all, Bashir could continue to provide warmth.  
  
Now if only he could stop that incessant thrashing.  
  
It hardly took any effort at all. Garak twisted his torso and whipped the Terran’s head against the nearby rock. The man went limp, blood oozing from yet another wound.  
  
For a moment he was so still Garak thought he might have ended him. But then he saw it, the tiny plume of hot breath in the cold air. He wouldn’t join the ghostly parade that haunted the Gul quite yet.  
  
But Garak probably should do something about Bashir’s injuries before he--and his warmth--completely slipped away.  
  
****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to experiment with Garak having a different sort of phobia. The DS9 claustrophobia still exists, but to a lesser extent. Garak fears...other things. This will be explored further in later chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

In Julian’s dreams, Jadzia was still alive.  
  
It made sleeping agony.  
  
Her being alive--even in dreams--meant she could die, and she did. Again. And again. And again.  
  
One minute in his dreamscape, they would be sabotaging Terok Nor or commandeering a scout ship together----the next Jadzia was cold and still in his arms.  
  
There were other dreams, too. The ones where Jadzia didn’t die. In those dreams she would throw back her pretty head, laugh and smile at him. Those times he awoke thinking she was still alive.  
  
That was so much more cruel.  
  
Now as Bashir’s eyes cracked open, he not only believed Jadzia was still alive, he could _feel_ her pressed against him. The length of her body afforded just enough pressure against his back to assure him. In that twilight moment, a smile touched his lips, and he sighed in relief.  
  
“I thought you were dead,” he murmured. Thank whatever cosmic force had brought her back to him. Thank fuck he’d only dreamed her death.  
  
Bashir shifted against her, pressing closer, and simply enjoyed his existence.  
  
There was no anger, no fear, no sadness. Just this one perfect moment of him and Jadzia.  
  
Just.  
  
One.  
  
Moment.  
  
And then his eyes went wide and he saw the gray rock walls around him. Bashir struggled to sit up, hissed at his aching _everything_ , and was roughly grabbed and forced back to the hard ground. A hand too large and too hard to be Jadzia’s held him down. Claws dug into his arm.  
  
“I’m _not_ dead,” Garak informed him in a dangerously bemused voice.  
  
Julian struggled against the grip, disoriented by the unfamiliar landscape. A cave? Maybe? Not enough light and too fucking much Cardassian.  
  
He couldn’t see the Gul, could only feel and hear him. When Garak spoke, he felt the whispered breath against his neck and it made his stomach clench. “And neither are you. No, no, don’t struggle. You’ll only injure yourself. _Again_. I wasted most of the medical supplies on you and your _fragile_ ribs.”  
  
“Let me _go_ ,” Bashir growled.  
  
“Ah, I think not. See, I’m quite comfortable. _Finally._ It might be a bit hard for you to imagine, Terran, but being your captive for that _rather bumpy_ thirteen hour jaunt across the Bajoran sector wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences. Your hospitality leaves something to be desired.”  
  
“You escaped your bindings,” Bashir accused. “When I found you, you were loose.”  
  
“Yes, but only _after_ we crashed. Before that I was most uncomfortably bound. I’m surprised you don’t remember, considering you’re the one who bound me. But now I’m out of that bitter wind, I’m warm, I’m comfortable, and I’d like to sleep just a bit longer. We’ve got a ways to go yet and I’d like to be rested before we resume our journey.”  
  
Garak pulled him closer and Julian shuddered. He tried to kick away, realizing too late that his ankles were tied. Instead of the graceful blow and roll he’d planned, his lower body simply flopped over, while his upper torso stayed immobilized by Garak’s unyielding grip.  
  
“Fuck,” he groaned.  
  
“I told you not to struggle,” Garak said blithely. “Those ribs may be knitted, but they should still hurt enough to make you pliant.”  
  
“What do you think to get out of this? If you want me dead, kill me and end it. Don’t _toy_ with me.”  
  
“Toy with you? But you’re mistaken, my dear Captain. You are currently serving a vital purpose as my personal body warmer. Pillow and blanket in one. You are bedding, yes, but no _toy_.”  
  
Julian fumed silently, but his fury was dulled by an undercurrent of pain. For a while, he struggled, wriggling now and then. He tried to make it seem incidental. Just random movements, adjustments, trying to get comfortable. But instead of the Cardassian’s grip loosening, it grew tighter with every shift.  
  
“You writhe like a comfort woman.”  
  
_That_ stilled Bashir. He tried not to move, seething, but resting, clearing his mind, and gathering his energy. He needed more information.  
  
“Where are we?” he grumbled.  
  
“A cave about an hours’ walk from the ship.”  
  
“A _cave_.”  
  
“Would you prefer the elements?”  
  
“Obviously not.”  
  
“I didn’t take you for the sort who needed _creature comforts_ , Captain.”  
  
“I don’t. But then again, I’m not the one using you for a heated blanket. Why aren’t we still at the ship if you’re so fucking cold?”  
  
Garak remained silent.  
  
“Did you pick up a structure on your scanner?” Bashir asked darkly, prodding for information. “Is that what we’re heading for?”  
  
“You presuppose I _have_ a scanner.”  
  
“Now granted, we were crash landing by the time we were in sensor range, so I couldn’t _truly_ study the readouts, but I seem to recall this planet is uninhabited.”  
  
“Probably.” Garak agreed mildly. running his cool knuckle down the side of Bashir’s face. The captain trembled involuntarily and tried to shoulder his captor away.  
  
Jadzia used to touch him like that. She playfully teased with her fingers, always stroking his cheek or neck or shoulder. She was hard when she needed to be--cold and precise in a firefight. But in private, in bed, she was gentle.  
  
The fucking Cardie had _no right_ to touch him like this. If Garak wanted physical contact, they should brawl. His newly mended ribs be damned! He wanted to take a chunk out of the bastard. Anything to end this feeling of being held.  
  
“But you’d hole up in a cave and... _cuddle me_.” Julian spat the words. “Instead of repairing the ship.”  
  
“It was leaking radiation. I don’t suppose you wanted to be cooked from the inside out?”  
  
Nothing had indicated a radiation leak. And...the Gul had just admitted he didn’t have a scanner. Bashir huffed a sigh. Cardassian lies. Always Cardassian lies.  
  
The gentle fingers became a firm pressure along his jaw. “You are a strange looking creature. Intriguing. Pity you smell like Targ sweat, Captain.”  
  
“If it’s keeping you from--” Bashir couldn’t even finish the thought. All he knew was that he was _no one’s_ comfort woman. “I’d dunk myself in Targ _shit_ if it repelled you.”  
  
“Nothing a forced dip in a pool wouldn’t cure. There are several lovely ones deeper in the cave.”  
  
A vehement protest rose to his lips, but was cut off by teeth sinking painfully into his shoulder.

  
****


	4. Chapter 4

Despite the intrinsic delights of lying, it would be rather rank of Gul Garak to lie to _himself_ . At least consciously. His unconscious mind could play all its little covert games, could twist reality and memory as it pleased, and he was was content to let it. There was a certain protection in automatic self-deception, at least.  
  
But it would be foolish to attempt to _knowingly_ convince himself of the falsehoods usually reserved for others. And so, he acknowledged, with mild disgust, that laying so close to the human had _affected_ him. The sensation of Bashir’s lean body--hard but fragile in all those Terran ways--had been deeply arousing, regardless of the clothing that separated them.  
  
Despite all the pain and humiliation he’d inflicted on Terrans, Garak had never _taken_ one.  
  
Terrans were for working the mines, processing ore, _carrying things_ . They were simple beasts of burden. Crude, dirty creatures.  
  
Of course, not all in the Alliance believed as Garak did. He knew many who liked to _play_ in the dirt. The Regent, for example, always kept a human lover or two--but Regent Worf also liked to break his lovers. Garak thought perhaps that was why the Intendant, too, enjoyed forcing human companionship. Humans were cheap and plentiful, they were expendable.  
  
But if Garak was going to _break_ something, it would be with a quick snap of the neck. He had always enjoyed feeling a life drain away, slipping between his claws.  
  
And yet, there was this man-- _his prisoner now_ \--hobbling toward one of the shallow cave pools, different from any Terran he’d ever encountered. Or convenient, perhaps. Was there a difference?  
  
Bashir was still bound at the ankles, making his movements tight and uncoordinated. A slow shuffle. If those long legs were freed, Garak imagined the Captain could sprint quite magnificently. And that was an intriguing thought. The man _running_ . It made Garak want to _chase_.  
  
Captain Bashir shot a dark look over his shoulder. It was almost as if he could hear those predatory thoughts. A wickedly curving smile came to Garak’s lips.  
  
This man was most definitely a beast of burden. Filthy. But also a matchstick waiting to be struck, to be  ignited.  
  
Garak _was_ intrigued.  
  
It had begun the second time he’d bitten the human. Not in self-defense as on the ship, but in slow ardor. Deep enough to draw blood--which was strangely coppery. Was everything about the Terran race so earthy? That slope of smooth, ridgeless neck, bare, but somehow beautiful. Garak couldn’t help but allow himself a nibble.  
  
His neck bloodied, Bashir had howled and struggled so fiercely Garak was _certain_ the man would break those ribs again. So he released him and watched him attempt to roll away. In an impressive display--considering his injuries--the Captain shouted colorful insults all the while, until he was silenced by his impact against the cave wall.  
  
It was quite an amusing sight.  
  
There was no force on earth that could get the clothes Bashir wore clean again. Even if they weren’t covered in dried blood, the dirt and sweat were part of the fabric now. They were a timeline of his recent life sketched out in ugly stains. Filthy. They would all need to go in the fire.  
  
But then he’d have nothing to wear.  
  
Oh, the skin underneath, such an intriguing burnt sienna hue. It was warm and smooth, peculiarly pleasing to the touch. Garak hadn’t been teasing about the smell of targ sweat, however.  
  
And so he’d pulled Bashir up from his resting place by the wall and forced him toward the pool.  
  
The waters were a cool, still blue, highlighted by a shaft of angled light that slipped questing fingers through a crack in the rocky ceiling.  
  
“Untie me.”  
  
So demanding. That was the Terran motto, wasn’t it? ‘Demand.’ They had cut a swath across the galaxy, conquering worlds for their ‘Empire’--demanding fealty and felling those who refused. And now they _demanded_ their freedom, too. As if centuries of Terran oppression and impetuous xenocide had been repaid by a few mere decades of servitude. It was sheer arrogance.  
  
“There’s no need to untie you. _Yet_.”  
  
He let the promise hang, could speculate what Captain Bashir thought he’d meant, and did not bother to correct him. He had every intention of untying the man eventually. Had every intention of letting him stretch those long, lithe legs--letting him _run_. Because until Bashir ran, he wouldn’t truly understand just how much control Garak now had over him.  
  
But that was for later.  
  
“I can’t swim like this.”  
  
“The water isn’t that deep.”  
  
“With my ankles tied, I can’t even get my trousers off.”  
  
“You _want_ to take your trousers off?” Garak asked, bemused. This was easily the longest conversation he’d ever had with a Terran slave--the creature was humorous. His scowls and grunts and that _bitterness_ . How proud he was, how _angry_.  
  
Without another word, Bashir hopped into the pool and looked surprised when the water only went up to his chest. Then he quickly hopped and splashed away, as far away from Garak as he could get. The water clouded as he moved through it.  
  
Filthy.  
  
“Entertain me, Terran,” Garak said, slowly walking the perimeter of the pool. Every time he got near Bashir, the man awkwardly hopped away from him.  
  
“I’d rather die.”  
  
“That could be arranged,” he replied, bored by the exchange. How many Terrans had stood in front of him, bleeding and proud, or bleeding and scared, or bleeding and desperate? Always the conversation played out along one of three paths.  
  
_I’ll do anything, please just don’t kill me._

_  
_ _I’d rather die than submit to you._

_  
_ _I will kill you, you bastard._

__  
The interchange always ended with their deaths.  
  
In retrospect, it had lost its fun after awhile. Not the killing, but the conversation. It disappointed him that his intriguing human was proving to be the same as the rest in that regard.  
  
Or perhaps not.  
  
As Garak made his third full round, Bashir did not hop away from him. Instead, he, glaring, waited and at a moment so obvious it was laughable, sprang from the water and grappled with Garak’s legs, yanking as hard as he could to pull him down. It did not work, and Garak shook him off and sent him falling back into the water.  
  
Bashir emerged, spluttering, his entire body soaked.  
  
“I was going to suggest you do something about your hair,” Gul Garak said with a smirk. “Though I fear the whole pool will be contaminated before you get clean.”  
  
“You’re _dead_ ,” Bashir hissed.  
  
“I believe I requested you entertain me.” And to show he wasn’t the least bit frightened by the Captain’s threats, Garak calmly took a seat at the ledge. He crossed his legs under him and watched the man. “A story will do. Surely you know some ridiculous Terran tale. Or perhaps a song?”  
  
“I’ll cut out your tongue.”  
  
“Gods, you must really hate the water.”  
  
“You-you take me captive, bind me, _touch me_ , bite me, and now you want me to _entertain you_. It’s not the water I hate.”  
  
After a moment’s thought, Garak teased, “I believe there was a certain _holo-image_ you wanted returned.”  
  
That stilled Bashir’s protestations. For a moment he seemed caught between a yell and something even more primal.  
  
“ _Entertain me_ and I will show it to you.”  
  
“I want it _back_.”  
  
“Oh, my dear Captain, of _course_ you do. And I want to be back on Terok Nor, cutting down your rebel friends, one by one. Yet we are both here, not getting what we want. So. Entertain me while you bathe and you can _see her_.”  
  
For a long moment, those eyes, so honeyed and light when he was distracted--when he _wasn’t_ focused on the Gul--seemed to turn coal black. Bashir obviously warred with himself. Did he want to see the holo-image so badly? Badly enough to give in?  
  
Garak began to hum, moving his finger back and forth through the air like the swinging of a pendulum.  
  
“Like all things in life, my dear Captain,” Garak said slowly, breaking into his song. “This offer has a time limit and yours is almost _up_.”  
  
“Once...upon a time…” Bashir ground through his teeth. Garak leaned back on his arms and smiled at his success. “There was an evil sonofabitch Cardassian.”  
  
“Oh, I do like this already. ‘Evil,’ you say? Tell me more.”  
  
“His name was Marley. And he was dead to begin with.”  
  
Gul Garak cocked an eye ridge. “Such an unusual name for a Cardassian. I doubt he could have even risen to the rank of Glinn with a name like that.”  
  
“He didn’t rise,” Bashir said, bobbing around the water. One of his hands had disappeared and Garak watched him struggling with his bindings. But Garak was no novice. He’d taken and held more prisoners than he could count.  Bashir would never escape his bonds without assistance. “He was dead.”  
  
“To begin with. Yes, you said.”  
  
Bashir stared at him, his arm moving less subtly in its attempt to free himself.  
  
“I’ve a question. However can our hero possibly fulfill his obligations to the story if he’s already dead?”  
  
“Hero?” Bashir’s brows furrowed. Such a strange feature the Terrans had. Hairy brows. And Captain Bashir’s were a lovely mess, nothing like the neat row of ridges across a noble Cardassian brow. His were unkempt, going whatever way they pleased. It made him look ridiculous, especially when he scowled. How could anyone take a frowning Terran seriously? “Marley isn’t the _hero_ of this story. He’s the villain. And he’s dead.”  
  
“Ah, but he must be the hero. You mentioned him first. With such colorful flair, even. _Evil sonofabitch Cardassian_ , I believe you said.”  
  
“That’s right, he--” Bashir broke off mid-speech and whirled around in the pool, his arms out stretched, his head whipping back and forth. “What the fuck was that?”  
  
Garak stared at him mildly. Oh, a new ploy. _Look over there?_ type escapades. _Captain Bashir, you must up your game._  
  
“There’s nothing. Continue the story.”  
  
Bashir turned and glowered at him. “There _is_ something. I felt it! Around my legs. There it is again!” He whipped around again and started to hop-swim his way over toward Garak. “There’s something in this fucking water. _Pull me out_!”  
  
While he was certain there was no way that Bashir had managed to free his legs, Garak was still not going to fall for these childish attempts at escape. When he finally released Bashir--it would be in his own good time.

“Yes, yes, I know. Some great cave-dwelling creature is nibbling your toes. Stop wasting our time and continue the story.”  
  
Bashir’s eyes widened and he pressed up hard against the side of the pool, grabbing Garak’s knees and trying to hoist himself out of the water. With easy strength, Garak took him by the upper arms and lifted him so that he hung suspended, dripping wet and mid-calf in the disgustingly murky water.  
  
“I don’t know that you’re finished, Captain,” Garak said coolly, observing him. “Did you remember to wash behind your ears?”  
  
“Garak!” Bashir shouted, his hands clawing into Garak’s arms. “There is something--”  
  
Oh!  
  
The Gul saw it for a second, the brilliant flash and shiver of something red and pink and _large_ skimming the surface of the pool. There _was_ something in the water. Something that was quite interested in Garak’s prisoner and his ready source of heat.  
  
Quickly Garak moved to draw Bashir fully from the water, but the creature had other ideas. It latched onto Bashir. The man hollered in surprise and pain--his voice echoing along the cave walls. And suddenly Garak was in a fight for his prize.  
  
_Of course_ this would happen here! Here on this planet where he _needed_ Bashir! Here where he’d begun to lust for Bashir! Anywhere else and he would have let the Terran rebel slip to his watery grave. Garak would have relished the death, even. But he needed this man.

  
So he fought the cave lurker as Bashir howled in agony, being pulled between the two of them. It became quickly evident he was losing the battle with the creature.  
  
“You want him so badly?” he shouted, pulling as hard as he could. If he didn’t let go, his prisoner would be ripped in two. So Garak let go.  
  
Not of Julian Bashir, but of his hold on the pool ledge.  
  
They went into the water together.  
  
****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my hubs who had a dream about Captain Bashir and that cave lurking fish thing. If not for him, Julian would have had a nice, relaxing bath in a pool... Well, not necessarily nice. And not really relaxing. Garak still would have been leering. But there would have been no creepy things in the water.
> 
> Don't swim in cave pools, folks.


	5. Chapter 5

Once, as a teenager, Julian had almost been sucked out an airlock. There'd been no emergency, no breech, just some Cardassian fucker playing with Terran lives. He’d held onto a storage rack with all his might, unable to breathe, struggling against an almighty suction unlike anything he’d felt before or since.

Until now.

The monster dragged Julian so swiftly through the shifting waters, it created a blinding torrent of bubbles and a roar of sound. Much like that day he’d clung on for dear life, he now clung to Garak’s arms, pulling the Cardassian along with him to a startlingly deep watery grave.

No time to think where they were going, or how the water that had only come up to his chest before now seemed so infinite. There was only instinct: struggling and kicking both legs like a fish tail against the creature, and holding onto Garak as if the Gul would be his salvation.

Pressure built in Julian’s lungs--the deep, burning need to draw breath.  
He knew he couldn’t. Knew he would die, but the urge was growing too strong.

 _Breathe, breathe, breathe_ …

His lungs protested and his vision, already obscured by the bubbles, began to blacken. His hands started to loosen on Garak’s arms and then he felt the other man grab him harder, pull in closer. The creature thrashed and shook Bashir as if it meant to break his neck. Only the added drag of Garak--hanging on to him fiercely-- slowed the lashing movement enough that the creature did not succeed. Was the water red? Or was that just his eyes?

Garak began to use Bashir’s body like...what was the word? He was confused. Like… a ladder. _Ladder._ Right. Climbing over him against the drag of the water. Bashir only noticed it when he realized his arms were floating free and there was a Cardassian boot between his shoulder blades. Hands gripped his ankles.

Either Garak was attempting escape, or he was fighting off the creature..

What a way to die.

 _What a_ pathetic _way to die_. The voice, the voice. The one that came to him in moments of choice.

Live? Or die?

Really, it was a false dilemma, there was only ever one choice.

The one he made every time.

_Fight._

Garak’s attack was confusing the creature. Julian felt the moment its hold on his leg loosened, and he turned, gripping Garak tightly around the waist and using the leverage of the Cardassian’s body to rip his leg free of the creature’s grasp.

If anyone ever were to ask him, he wouldn’t be able to say whether the kick that followed was aimed at Garak’s head or at the creature, but he felt the pop as his big toe burst through the unprotected sclera of the creature’s eye and the force of its thrashing and screams was enough to put a wide gap between them and it.

Then, as ever, Julian lost the fight.

****

“You’re _not_ welcome here.”

If Julian had the energy to lift his head, he might have offered a response. Something quick and biting about how Gul Garak wasn’t his ideal companion either. But since he hardly had the energy to _breathe_ , much less _move_ , he enacted none of his grand plans and instead he lay listening to Garak’s denigration.

“You great, lumbering _fool_. Too stupid to even stay dead.”

_Right, right._

“You’ve made a mistake in coming here, my old friend. I killed you once, and I’ll gladly do it again.”

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck. Bashir was going to have to lift himself up off this delightfully damp, hard floor where he was sprawled like a bag of spilled rulot seeds and _fight_.

And dammit all, Julian didn’t have an ounce of energy for it.

So he groaned instead.

The rant suddenly stopped and he heard Garak move closer to him. Bashir flopped his arm toward the Gul’s foot, fell short, and sighed.

“Just...fucking...kill me then.”

“Kill you?”

Was it all the water sloshing around Bashir’s brain, or did Garak sound surprised? His tone quickly morphed into biting sarcasm. “Oh, Terran. You’re not getting off the hook so easily. I fought for your life and I won. You’re mine now and _I’ll_ decide when you die, not you.”

With too much effort, Julian turned his head and looked up at the looming figure above him, shadowed in the murky light. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re not the first to accuse me of it.” Slowly, silently, Garak crouched down next to Bashir. “Get up. We’re leaving.”

“Get up?” He groaned.

“We have to make our way to the cave entrance. As meager as they are, our supplies are back there.”

“...Let me rest. Can’t move.”

“You _can_ move. And you _will_ move.”

Bashir’s eyes slipped closed. He was so bone-weary that even the cave floor was sweet comfort. Moving an inch sounded like murder.

“ _Captain_ ,” Garak hissed. “Aren’t you the one who so desperately wanted to see your Trill’s holo-image again? She awaits you at the cave entrance.”

“Jadzia…” he murmured, and then with a bitter cough, snapped. “Is dead.”

“This surprises _no one_ . But your fickle heart does intrigue me. You were willing to do battle for the holo-image. Now you’ve suddenly _given up_ ? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s a human characteristic, isn’t it? _Quitting_.”

In the cold embrace of his wet clothing, Bashir found he had no response. He could _imagine_ what he would do if he had the energy. He’d spring upon the lizard and break his neck for suggesting for a second that Bashir would ever quit on Jadzia. But for the first time that he could remember, anger was too difficult.

He just wanted to sleep.

“Oh, this _is_ a sight. Captain Bashir who took my vessel with nothing more than a phaser in hand can’t even bring himself to _respond_ . Where’s your _fight_ now? Pathetic.”

The Gul was _trying_ to goad him. Why? What did he want?

“ _Get up_ or I will throw you over my shoulder.”

“Then fucking throw me over your shoulder,” Bashir snapped. “But shut up.”

For a moment it seemed like Garak might do just that. He reached for Julian but then he paused, and Bashir could feel his clawed hands hovering close without touching. Suddenly he stood and turned, his boots heavy against the rock floor. “ _NaDevvo' yIghoS!_ Don’t come a step closer, you _BiHnuch_.”

“Make up your fucking mi--”

“You should have stayed in _Gre'thor_ where I sent you. Bashir, get up. We are not _alone_ here. We must _go_.”

No, no they weren’t alone, were they? The Cardassian was shouting in Klingon, odd because the allied races rarely deigned to speak each other’s languages, but Garak’s pronunciation was flawless. _Klingon_. Why? The only Klingon on the planet was--

“I can’t _carry you_ and _fight him_ at the same time, now can I?” the Gul roared. “Get _up_ or you’re going back to Ore Processing with the rest of your useless kind, Terran!”

With every bit of effort gathered from fuck only knew where, Captain Bashir managed to heave himself up onto his arms. He almost raised his head, as well, and despite his shaky vision, even shakier limbs, and a confusion so thick it was like a fog, he managed to stay up for three whole seconds.

Then he hit the ground with a wet thud, eyes searching desperately for their Klingon enemy but finding only shadows.

As his eyes started to slip closed, an inconsequential thought came to Bashir, _Ore Processing is back on Terok Nor._

****

They were running.

No, Bashir wasn’t running, _Garak_ was running. Bashir was being carried-- _clutched and carried_. His ankles were finally unbound. He could feel his legs bounce independently while his captor? (Captive? Who had who now?) huffed his way through twisting tunnels, mindless of where his feet fell.

When Julian tried to lift his head, Garak crushed him so hard against the ribbed breastpiece of his Gul uniform it was certain to leave impressions.

Garak’s hand remained on the side of his face, pressing hard, possessive.

“Don’t look back,” came the dark command. “If you don’t look back, he can’t harm you.”

  
****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How has Bashir not died of blood loss yet? Poor, angry guy.


	6. Chapter 6

Kordd, Kordd, Kordd.  
  
The Klingon beast stalked the earth once more.  
  
OK.  
  
Yes.  
  
Good.  
  
Garak could handle this. As long as they kept out of the Klingon’s sight. He’d tracked them deep into the cave, but they’d outrun him and his blind fury.  
  
The angry eyes of the dead.  
  
Garak now huddled at the entrance of the cave, back supported against the rocky face, with full view of both the cave depths and the landscape outside. He was biding his time--using the cave as long as it would afford them sanctuary. Eventually Kordd would work his way through the labyrinth and find them again and Garak would have to escape, or fight.  
  
But Garak would see Kordd coming this time.   
  
He would not give the Klingon a chance to strike.  
  
Garak took a deep, steadying breath, and shifted Bashir’s weight against his side.  
  
_Kordd, you_ petaQ.  
  
Too stupid to stay dead.  
  
Gul Garak had never been one to track minutia--had risen through the ranks of the Cardassian military by his willingness to do what others wouldn’t, and not by meticulous record keeping. But it _seemed_ to him as if it usually took _longer_ for the ghosts to arise.  
  
He considered all the pieces.  
  
There were few options and none of them particularly satisfying. With the Klingon awake, Garak would eventually have to act. Yet he’d only ever known the one solution.  
  
_Kill someone else._  
  
Murder seemed to appease the dead.   
  
_Ah, you’re angry I killed you? Here, look, it isn’t as if you’re unique--I’ll simply kill another. See, no need to haunt me now._  
  
It worked.  
  
For a time.  
  
Though it was painfully cyclic. The ghost of his new victim would ultimately rise up and come for him as well. They always did. But a temporary cessation was something, was it not?   
  
Garak worried less about the hollow eyes of Terran rebels. They did not frighten him in life and it was easier to convince himself that they did not frighten him in death.  
  
But Kordd was no Terran rebel.  
  
Kordd was a hardened, crazed Klingon. And oh, he was angry.  
  
Brought low in a crash landing.  
  
But how had he known it was Garak that sabotaged the ship?  
  
_As if he doesn’t know what you know, Elim, you fool_.  
  
Garak dug his knuckles into his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. Yes, yes, of course. He was in Garak’s head, after all. And what a landscape. So many secrets ripe for the picking.   
  
“I didn’t _mean_ to kill you, Kordd,” he murmured. “If that’s worth anything?”  
  
Oh, it was certainly worth _something_. For anyone else, it would have been enough. An accident? Not worth haunting the land over an accident. But Kordd was Klingon and as such, his honor _demanded_ death in battle--yet he’d died impaled on the navigational controls of a scout ship. Ha!  
  
Worse, he’d died a _prisoner_ of Captain Bashir.  
  
It was a coward’s death.  
  
So yes, yes, of course he’d refused to stay dead and rot in his body.  
  
If only Garak had another ready victim! Except there was no steady stream of Terrans here. No one from Ore Processing to glance at him wrong and incite his ire. There was only Julian Bashir.   
  
He glanced at the body lying curled up next to him, and considered how easy it once would have been for him to end the man.  
  
Something had changed.  
  
It started when the cave dweller attempted to wrest Bashir from him and was then cemented by Kordd’s resurgence.   
  
Captain Bashir was _his_.  
  
Bashir’s anger, his fight, his body heat, all of it belonged to Garak’s. And he was not letting go. He enjoyed the spark in Bashir and that made the Captain...safe...with him.  
  
Oh, _Bashir_ might not consider it so.  
  
Certainly he’d feel more vulnerable now than ever before. Perhaps he’d be justified--after all, being Garak’s possession was far more dangerous than being his enemy.  
  
Garak could not take the easy path this time. His growing attachment to Bashir meant the man was no fit sacrifice for Kordd.  
  
So, he’d have to fight his former ally a different way.   
  
Garak _could_ beat him. Probably. It had only taken sabotage to bring him down in the first place. But…  
  
Bashir shivered in his sleep and Garak’s attention was yanked away from the impending fight. He slipped a protective arm around the Captain and moved him so that he was practically laying in Garak’s lap.   
  
He'd stripped the man down to his damp underthings, leaving the clothes just outside the cave entrance. He hoped that they would dry quickly. Obviously if Bashir was cold, Garak was colder.  
  
Oh what he wouldn't give for Cardassia with its beautiful suns. He would have melted into the heated embrace of his motherland, bathed in her warmth. He’d never once been cold on Cardassia.  
  
But perhaps there were other ways to warm oneself.   
  
He considered the sleeping form draped over him; and placed a heavy hand on the back of Bashir’s head.  
  
Reaching into the bag, Garak felt around for the last hypospray. Revive the Captain? Or let him sleep? His fingers curled around the instrument.  
  
Rest? Or fight?  
  
Both were good medicine...  
  
The Captain ran on seemingly limitless fury. Garak had watched it bolster him when lesser men would have fallen. There was something captivating about the strangely peaceful look on Bashir’s face as he slept. But perhaps they would both benefit from stoking the man’s inner fire.  
  
Garak placed the spray against the Captain’s neck, pressed down hard, heard the canister hiss. It expelled the last of its contents and he stirred.  
  
Now to see if Bashir could still land blows.  
  
“Where... the fuck... are my clothes?” It was as good an opening line as any and Garak had expected nothing less.  
  
“Drying,” he replied mildly, running his fingers absently through the clumped locks of Bashir’s dark hair. “I didn’t want you to contract some human ailment brought on by your wet garments.”  
  
“And while they've been drying, you’ve been, what? Just...watching me?”  
  
“My, you think highly of yourself.”  
  
“Says the one _holding_ me.”  
  
“We long ago established that I like your warmth, my dear Captain. I’d wear you like a robe if you wouldn’t clash with my boots.”  
  
Bashir shifted, but didn't pull away. Was he weak? Or merely cold? Surely the fight hadn’t completely gone out of him? It was a troubling thought.  
  
“Where’s...the Klingon?”  
  
“Lost in the caves,” Garak said shortly. “For the moment.”  
  
“And we’re just _waiting_ for him to find his way out?”  
  
“We’re _waiting_ for your clothing to dry, for you to warm up, for you to recharge your delicate human constitution.”  
  
There was a long moment of silence before Bashir said. “I could have sworn he was dead.”  
  
“You’d be surprised how often the dead refuse to stay so. I thought _you_ were dead after I crushed your ribs. And then again when you were taken by the cave dweller. You never cease to amaze me with your ability to survive.”  
  
“You could have killed me while I was sleeping.”  
  
“Captain,” Garak drawled. “You really do _not_ understand the concept of my needing your warmth, do you?”  
  
“...What you’re doing with your hand is not necessarily... _warmth..._ related, now is it?”  
  
“It precipitates warmth. If you’re so inclined.”  
  
“I’m _not_.”  
  
“The day is still young.”  
  
“And I still _hate_ you,” Bashir reminded him bitterly. “And the second I get a chance, I’m _going_ to end you. See, I don’t need your ‘warmth.’ Cardassian. And I don’t need _you_.”

Garak grinned, letting his eyes close and stay so for the first time since Kordd had reappeared. Oh, yes, he very, very much liked his very own Terran rebel. “I’ve never been adverse to a  _ little death _ in the morning.”

  
****


	7. Chapter 7

Captain Bashir had known many Terrans who used sex to get what they wanted from their oppressors.

They stank of their Cardassian, Klingon, and Bajoran lovers, and to Bashir, the smell was worse than rot.  

Yes, they were rewarded for willingly bedding down with the enemy, but those rewards always came from  _ somewhere. _ All too often, Bashir and his comrades had been that “somewhere.”

He’d seen rations reallotted, promotions of level stripped for petty reasons, death sentences... _ exchanged _ .

He'd known a Terran woman who'd taken her sister’s Theta rank and a man who had a former partner killed at the whim of his Cardassian lover.

Bashir wouldn't.

Not for food, comfort, life, or…

Not even  _ here _ , where there was no one to take any reward away from.

But Garak’s hand…

It was heavy and possessive.

He’d been struck so many times by a hand clawed like this one. He waited to be hit--but the hand remained...gentle.

It confused the hell out of him.

“I’m hungry,” Bashir grunted. Easier to focus on his gnawing hunger than the hand.

“I imagine you are. You Terrans seem to be obsessed with food. I’ve seen the way you all eat, like someone might snatch your meal away from you.”

“I’ve had my meal snatched away more times than I care to count.”

“You are not subtle with your tone, my dear Captain. You act as if I’ve personally taken food from your mouth.”

“Your  _ kind _ has.”

“And your kind took food from my elders. It all cycles back. Or rather, it swings. Favor and fortune. We’re riding a pendulum.”

It was a strangely profound thought, but Bashir didn’t want profound from the Gul. He wanted to argue. “If we’re riding a pendulum, then that means the Terrans will eventually--”

Garak held out his hand as if stilling the swinging motion. “A force acting against it  _ will  _ stop its return swing. My people understand just what you Terrans are capable of. You must remember, this is not  _ ancient  _ history. Your people’s crimes are fresh within Cardassia’s recent memories.”

“We never enslaved you.”

“That depends on your definition. You swept through the Quadrant and conquered worlds for your great _Empire_. You slaughtered all those who opposed your expansion. You subjugated Cardassia and its peoples. And _this_ is your punishment.”

“MY punishment? What the devil have I done?”

Yes.

This.

Bashir wanted a fight. He wanted rage. He wanted--

Garak moved his hand to the side of Bashir’s face.

“You’ve done  _ everything _ . And nothing.” He said it with such simplicity. 

No.

Not that. 

Not that-that  _ kindness _ .

Garak trailed his thumb against Bashir’s bottom lip and he shivered.

“My dear Captain--” Garak said. “You and I are the sole survivors on a dreadfully inhospitable planet.”

Bashir frowned deeply.  _ And?  _ “Not  _ so  _ inhospitable. And we’re not the only survivors, remember? The Klingon.”

Garak’s gaze shifted as he peered around for their assailant.

“We need food,” Julian tried again. “I’m getting my clothes and I’ll find us something to eat.”

“Oh, no, no. That won’t do. I can’t have you wandering off in the the wilds in your weakened state. Stay. I’ll find something suitable.”

“Stay here? With the Klingon?”

“He won’t harm you,” Garak said enigmatically. “It’s me he wants.”

“Not  _ me _ ? Who captured him? Who crashed the ship? Who almost killed him?”  _ I really thought he was dead _ .

“Not you. I assure you.”

Garak stood and all the warmth and comfort Bashir didn’t realize he’d been feeling slipped away with the Cardassian.

“My  _ clothes _ .”

“I should take them with me so you don’t run. But--” Disappearing from sight for a moment, Garak returned with Bashir’s clothing and--

“My bag!”

Garak tossed it and Julian caught it on the arc. For a moment, he looked distrustfully from the worn canvas up to the Gul who had yet to do anything for Bashir selflessly.

“Why?”

A grin was his only reply.

****

Julian dug his few worldly possessions out of the bag, placing them on the cave floor. A flask of Saurian brandy, some empty hyposprays, a ragged pile of fabric that was once--

“Hello, old friend,” Bashir muttered, lifting the rags and turning them. A smooshed teddy bear face greeted him. Without its stuffing, the bear was flat and lifeless. How many times had they filled this little guy with supplies, smuggling aid to their fellow rebels?

He reached inside the bear, but there was nothing left-- just the scratchy hidden stitches.

Setting it aside, Bashir finally found what he’d been wanting since he awoke on this planet.

_ Jadzia. _

He pressed the side of the holo-image base and she appeared, eight centimeters tall, grinning broadly, a hand shoved in her hair, as beautiful as she’d ever been. It wasn’t the same--of course--seeing her like this. There was no warmth. He couldn’t feel her arms, hear her voice, smell her scent-- but it was enough. For the moment, it was enough. 

He stared at her, unblinking, until quite suddenly she started to flicker.  _ Fuck _ . He’d seen this happen before, with other people’s holo-images. It wasn’t the power-- he’d charged it before he left Terok Nor.

This was something different.

The image itself  was beginning to degrade. Too much time between repairs, too many firefights-- just like Bashir himself.

He suddenly realized the day would come when he could no longer conjure up her picture at will.

Then what?

Then he’d start to forget, like he was already forgetting everything in his past except the rage.

She’d become  _ pieces _ of Jadzia.

Disembodied pieces.

The hand in the hair.

The lips turned up in a smile.

The spots.

Her eyes…

_ Fuck _ .

What color were her eyes?  _ What color were her eyes? _

He quickly pressed the button again and squinted hard in the dim light of the cave. Tiny pinpricks of lilac stared back at him.

Lilac. 

Her eyes were lilac.

Thank fuck.

The image wavered, and her face began to flicker and distort. Before he could turn it back off, she was gone.

Jadzia was gone.

Julian roared his frustration. His battle cry of  _ FUCK!  _ echoed throughout the entire cave. He struggled against the wall to pull his stiff body up -- now there was truly  _ nothing _ left. Enraged, Bashir chucked the holo-image stick as hard as he could. It made very little noise as it bounced away. Useless. Dead.

Grabbing the brandy and the bear, he shoved them in the bag and stumbled, stiff-legged out of the cave entrance and into the cool light.

He had to get back into the fight.

Somehow, some way, he had to get  _ off  _ this planet and back into the fight.

He could blame the Gul--could rest all the crimes of Cardassia on Garak’s scaly shoulders. But killing him would  _ not  _ be enough. He was too insignificant to bear the weight of Jadzia’s death.

Bashir had to return to the fray and the only way to do that was to salvage parts from the ship.

Radiation be damned. 

He was going back to the crash site and he’d rip the consoles apart with his bare hands if he had to. 

If only Smiley were here. That man could have made a distress beacon out of a rations packet and a power coupling. 

But Julian could manage.

He  _ would _ manage.

He had Cardassians to kill.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Kukalaka. Incidentally, if anyone wants to see what Kukalaka would look like in the Mirrorverse under ideal circumstances, here you go! ;)
> 
> http://prisdreamsbravely.tumblr.com/post/153999706107/hes-here-all-cleaned-up-and-finished


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! After an entire month of migraines and fogginess, I finally feel well enough to write and *YUM!* I like the result.
> 
> The Gul has some naughty fantasies about his Terran captive.
> 
> ENJOY!

Garak contemplated the fruit he’d just plucked from the low, thick bush. He turned it slowly in the light. No way to tell if it was poisonous except to take a bite.

A grin curled his lips as he sniffed the lumpy gray fruit.

Curious thing, the act of eating alien fruit. So much he didn’t--couldn’t--know, without the benefit of a local’s knowledge.

Except there weren’t any locals.

Was he supposed to peel it? Eat the skin? The seeds?

Not particularly interested in dying, but admittedly hungry, Garak sunk his teeth into the thick rind of the fruit and considered it for a moment.

Sour.

Was that how it was supposed to taste? Or was it not yet ripe? He took another bite.

He’d had worse.

****

Garak had a companion on his walk back to the cave.

It wasn't only the ghosts of his victims that haunted Garak. There were times-- still moments-- when other voices would rise to taunt him.

Whispers of the past.

_Kill them all, Elim._

His father had said this so often that no particular instance stood out. The words blurred. Garak might have been a boy of five or a man of twenty. The advice remained.

Tain had meant the Terrans. His father was old enough to remember their reign of terror -- old enough to remember the death and destruction and subjugation.

The rape of Cardassia, he’d called it.

 _Kill them all, Elim_.

But Garak did not harbor the same _directed_ animosity toward the Terrans as his father. Why discriminate when it came to removing obstacles? Killing was killing. It all brought him pleasure.

Or had.

“Not _all_ , Tain,” the Gul now muttered. “Not _him_.”

His father was displeased.

****

Garak left his bounty at the mouth of the cave. He’d collected more of the gray fruit and caught a single aquatic creature in a nearby creek. It smelled less than appealing, but was meaty nonetheless. They’d eat well enough.

He’d only taken a few steps inside when he realized that the Captain was gone. He searched for his prisoner, certain he wouldn’t find him. Garak laughed, amused. He’d rather Bashir have escaped than find him broken and bleeding on the cave floor.

Something distinct...had changed...for Garak.

Watching Bashir bleed had lost its thrill. There were much more _interesting_ things Garak wanted to do with him now.

Besides, no matter where the human tried to run to on this too-cold planet, Garak still had his failsafe.

He touched his hip pocket.

A diligent search turned up the holoimage Captain Bashir so treasured, cracked  and discarded in a dark corner. Garak crouched and considered the small object for a long moment, attempting to reconstruct what had happened.

Panic.

Frustration.

Anger.

Basic _human_ emotions.

Bashir had probably become agitated, taken his bag and fled. The abandoned holoimage base was a curiosity, but not a real concern. Garak pocketed it.

Untroubled, Garak set about finding dry tinder and kindling--easy enough-- and a rock to serve as flint-- not so easy. A disruptor would have handily created flame, but he was not so lucky.

So Garak worked quite some time, until the hunger gnawed at him and his father’s memory was practically manifest rather than a voice.

_Kill them all, Elim._

“Yes, yes. How about leading me to a spark, Father?” Elim quipped. “Murder will wait. If I don't eat, I fear I will expire. Besides, the Terran is weaker than I and who knows how long it's been since he's had a proper meal.”

In the end, like primitive Cardassians before him, Elim Garak, the great Gul, built a tinder nest, struck rocks together, rubbed sticks, and put all his physical strength into the act of building a fire. It was hard and exhausting work, and ultimately proved futile.

So his mind wandered.

Wandered back to his Terran who was now likely running toward the crashed shuttle or desperately seeking shelter.

His lithe body working.

Anger making him hard and hot.

The fantasy that formed was a good one. In it, Garak shoved his captive hard against the wall and relished the feel of the human fighting back. Fantasy Bashir pressed his thumb up under the Gul’s chin and forced his head back, exposing lines of hard, protective scales.

Oh, how Garak wanted him to bite.

“How familiar are you with Cardassian anatomy?” Garak whispered.

Bashir sucked air through his teeth and glared away.

“Intimately then?”

Garak didn't love the thought of other Cardassians having touched what was rightfully his.

“We’ve taken the clothes from dead Cardies,” Bashir hissed, and then cut his hazel eyes, dark with anger, back at Garak. “Is that _intimate_ enough for you?”

Garak chuckled-- both in his fantasy and aloud.

“I know your kind don't have cocks.”

The chuckle became a howl of laughter. Oh, the stupid Terran. “Is that what you think? Because _your_ kind keep all your intimate regions exposed to attack or--as I suspect--the concept of delayed gratification is so foreign to you that you have to _present_ at all times?”

“There’s… there’s _nothing there_ ,” Bashir reiterated gesturing crudely at Garak’s lower half. He flushed hotly. “I don’t know how you fuck.”

“Oh, this is a delight. The game will be even more exciting.”

Captain Bashir vehemently shook his head. “Game?”

“‘Can You Make Me Evert?’”

“Evert?”

“I forget, you’re a simple people. ‘Evert’  means to--”

“I _know_ what it means,” Bashir snapped, “But I don’t know how--”

“The rules of the game are simple. You have a set amount of time to tease me into everting. If you do so, _you_ may take the reward of your choice. If you’re unsuccessful, the reward is mine.”

The scowl grew darker still.

“I’m quite happy to reap my rewards regardless. I only thought you might enjoy _playing_ for your freedom. But I must warn you, pleasing a Cardassian will be quite unlike pleasing any Terran lover.”

“Then I’ve already lost?”

“Such a quitter for a _Captain_ . No wonder it’s been so easy to keep your people subservient. You don’t actually _want_ your freedom, do you? A race of masochists, you enjoy your Klingon and Cardassian masters. You feel safe under our control. You--”

Bashir lunged at Gul Garak, but instead of fists which had become their standard method of conversation of late, Julian’s inexpert hands sought under clothes and he looked consternated as he tried to find _somewhere_ that would please Garak and cause him to _evert_.

“I fucking hate you,” Garak’s fantasy whispered.

“The forcefulness is nice,” Garak mused blandly as Bashir tried to strip him. “But as you’ve so cleverly pointed out, our genitals are _not_ on the outside, and fumbling around down there isn’t going to do you much good. I’ll give you a hint, if you’d like. But it will cost you a minute of your time.”

“You never told me how long the timer was _set for_ ,” Bashir snapped angrily, moving his hands steadily upward as if feeling blindly in the dark for a phaser. His movements were cold and mechanical. The places he touched--places Garak imagined the human might enjoy touching himself--elicited nothing but a cool smirk from the Cardassian.

And then as an afterthought, he grazed Garak’s collarbone as he was reaching elsewhere.

The Gul’s entire demeanor changed. He grabbed Julian’s palm and crushed it there so hard Bashir winced.

“It’s going to break, you freak.”

“You couldn't break my bones if you tried.”

“I meant _my hand_.”

“I’m just showing you that you needn’t play so _timidly_ , Dear Captain.”

Garak-- in the present, in the real world-- reached into his hip pocket touched the transmitter -- his secret tether to the Terran. Oh, how _furious_ Bashir would be once he was “summoned” back to the cave.

He heard a noise, felt the presence, but still swimming up from the fantasy of playing with Captain Bashir, Garak registered the intruder a second too late.

Kordd was on him, hands around Garak’s throat, knees pressed on his chest. The breath was knocked out of his lungs when he fell against the cave floor.

“You...aren't...real…” Garak grunted, but his stomach quavered. The dead Klingon used the full force of his weight to hold Garak down. Blood ran down his angry, contorted face. “You...aren’t…”

It didn’t matter if he was real.

It didn’t matter if he was a panic-induced delusion.

As Garak’s pulse quickened and his breath grew short, he knew if he did not best this demon, he’d be dead.

 _Kill them all, Elim_.

So very helpful, Tain. Thank you.

Garak clawed the ground for the transmitter that had fallen just out of reach.

Kordd snarled and shook and squeezed Garak hard.

His finger grazed the transmitter.

Almost. Almost.

He pressed down.

****


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly interlude-y!
> 
> Captain Bashir reminisces about an old friend as he makes his way toward the crashed ship.
> 
> From an **[anon ask](http://prisdreamsbravely.tumblr.com/post/157105591407/terran-rebel-jules-and-his-kukalaka)** I received on Tumblr that got me to thinking!

When he was seven years old, Julian Bashir made a new friend.

The Bashir family had received a teddy bear from an elderly Vulcan woman who owed them payment for something now long forgotten. He remembered his mother, Amsha, wasn’t pleased with the exchange, but finally accepted the bear when the old woman wouldn't stop with her "logic". Amsha gave the toy to “Jules.”  
  
He was too old for a stuffed bear, but it was the first gift he’d ever received and so he decided he didn’t care if he was supposed to _be a man_ , he treasured that bear.  
  
It wasn’t long before the rebel network his family secretly belonged to started using his precious treasure-- which young Jules had dubbed Kukalaka-- to smuggle supplies.  
  
"It's a noble cause," he'd explained to Kukalaka solemnly, after his mother slit the bear along his tummy seams. "Don't be afraid, you'll be helping save Terran lives."  
  
It was almost the exact same speech his father had given to him before he'd taken the fight to the Cardies and died for his trouble.  
  
"But I won't let you die," Julian promised his bear, arranging Kukalaka’s stuffing around a trio of much-needed hyposprays, so that no one would be suspicious. Then he carefully stitched along the seams. Unpracticed, he had to undo his work three times before finally getting it right.  
  
Over time, Jules became quite adept at sewing up his Kukakala. Almost as if he were the bear's own personal doctor. And, sometimes, when Kukalaka lay open, Jules would whisper secrets into the bear's core. Things he'd never have said aloud. Things he didn't even like to think about. How scared he was. How angry he was at his father for leaving them. His hatred of the Cardies and the Klingons and the Bajorans. How he'd have done anything for a chance to kill Supervisor Odo who had disciplined his best friend's brother to death.  
  
Sometimes, after a day processing ore, and if Kukalaka was back in their small camp, Jules would clutch him tight, so exhausted he couldn't make words. During those times, he simply groaned into his bear. If a few tears happened to fall, well, Kukalaka’s rich, auburn fur hid them from sight.  
  
But the older he got, the less likely it was that Kukalaka returned to him.  
  
Instead, he'd circle through the Terran families with small children, the ones who did the dangerous work of carrying Kukalaka-- laden with weapons, or medicine, or dry goods. The KCA wouldn't think twice if they caught the children smuggling supplies. No matter their age. A snap of the neck. Done.  
  
It had never happened on Jules’ watch. He been so good with the "surgery" he performed, and so good at hiding the supplies, that no one ever suspected. But other families weren't so careful.  
  
One day, Kukalaka and his carrier were caught.  
  
The boy was killed.  
  
The bear discarded.  
  
Jules wept for the bear. He'd stopped weeping for other Terrans long ago.  
  
With no one to whisper his secrets to, Jules stomped down on his feelings. Deeper and deeper he pushed them. So far in the deep, dark, down, that they became an angry, ugly core.  
  
He grew up on that hatred.  
  
Jules became Julian.  
  
He focused on his pilot’s training, his proficiency with weapons, his hand-to-hand combat skills. He became the Terran rebel he was always meant to be.  
  
Captain Bashir.  
  
****  
  
Julian blinked, realizing he’d reached the downed Cardassian transport ship. How long had he been walking? Memories. God, they had a way of swarming, didn’t they?   
  
Julian paused at the open hatch, for just a moment, before reaching into the bag slung across his chest. He pulled out the shell of his old friend.  
  
The bear’s black eyes glinted in the soft light, strangely alert despite his deflated face.  
  
It was by the sort of twist of fate his mother would describe in her frivolous stories, that Kukalaka found his way back to Julian.  
  
He'd been assigned to “trash detail”-- what the Klingons, drunk on their blood wine, mockingly called it when they made the Terran slaves clean up the bodies of the other Terrans. Julian had been hauling the dead-- a whole slew of them-- a family, maybe-- out of their encampment in the communal living area.  
  
Hours into the job, his skin so filthy he thought he'd never get clean, his eyes and nose burning from the acrid smell of waste, Julian spotted a foot.  
  
Not human.  
  
_Fuzzy._  
  
How Kukalaka had found his way there…  
  
But it didn’t matter.  
  
An unskilled, but loving hand, had stitched him up the middle. Large, uneven stitches. Maybe another child had whispered his secrets inside.  
  
For a moment, Bashir, stared down into those unseeing black eyes-- Then he made to throw Kukalaka on the pile of the dead. Another corpse for the incinerator. But something stopped him.  
  
He told himself it was only that the bear was useful.  
  
Quite the little smuggler.  
  
He told himself a lot of things.

****  
  
Now, with hesitant fingers, Julian Bashir reached out and touched the velvet nose, worn bare in places.  
  
“We’re getting the hell off this planet, Kuka,” the Captain said before gently placing the bear-- _his bear_ \-- back in the bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you go, check out **[the fanart](http://prisdreamsbravely.tumblr.com/post/157785892432/i-love-the-mirrorverse-so-much-i-love-angry)** I did for this chappy!
> 
> Coming up next: Back to all that wicked, aggro Garashir biz!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! Why not celebrate with these two angry crazies? If that's not romance, I dunno what is!

_“Radi~bzzt~levels...zummm~bzzt~acceptable pa---rameters.”_   
  
“Check again.” Bashir grunted, as he hauled the bulky corpse of the _very, very, very_ dead Klingon away from the navigational console. Shards of glass were embedded deep in his hideous form.   
  
_“Ch-eee--EE--eecking.”_   
  
It was a goddamn miracle there was enough power left to run the emergency diagnostics system on the Cardassian scout ship. Most of the systems were either destroyed or in hibernation. After a long moment, and with more lip than Bashir thought was warranted from a computer with so much fried circuitry, a message assured him, _“Radiation levels~bzzt~hmm~bzzt~ within ac-ac-ceptable para-- after second check.”_   
  
“Of course they are.”   
  
Because everything the Cardassian had told him was a lie.   
  
There wasn’t any radiation leak and there wasn’t any Klingon stalking them through those caves.   
  
For a moment, Bashir remembered the way Garak had clutched him as he ran through the caverns-- fleeing, what? Nothing. A flight of fucking fancy.   
  
The sharp tang of blood still hung in the air and _fuck_ , the smell. Even with the hatch hanging open, it wasn’t cold enough in the ship to preserve the corpse entirely. With all his strength, Bashir rolled the body out the open hatch. It flopped over the edge, landing with a thud on the broken hatch door.   
  
That was a relief. A thud was far better than a splat.   
  
Bashir had unfortunate memories of bodies that went _splat_.   
  
There was no phaser or he would have incinerated the body. As things stood, the Klingon was probably going to draw wildlife. Whatever that looked like on this planet.   
  
He’d heard noises on his running trek to the downed craft-- sharp, distant cries of some hunting predator. Bashir was more concerned about the guttural howl of an approaching Cardassian, though. It almost seemed like he could hear it, but when he poked his head out of the hatch, there was no Gul in sight.   
  
Since the incident in the cave, he hadn’t come face to face with any beasties-- known or unknown. The Captain meant to keep it that way.   
  
Bashir worked quickly. He’d taken part in enough raiding parties gutting Cardassian ships to know where to look for the essentials. Like tools. The problem was, his raiding parties usually consisted of at least one damn competent engineer.   
  
The Captain only knew the basics.   
  
Enough to know what he didn’t know. And there was loads he didn’t know.   
  
Once again he found himself wishing for O'Brien. Smiley. He'd hated that nickname at first, but it grew on him. Bashir had almost considered Smiley a friend. As much as he ever considered anyone a friend.   
  
He missed the lot of those bastards sometimes.   
  
Good people. And not so good people. But all fighting for the same cause.   
  
It was the sixth panel he’d pulled off before he found what he was looking for-- something familiar enough that he thought he could work with it. He dug around for a time, focusing hard on the task, and while he worked, he talked to Jadzia.   
  
“If I can just reroute power-- Jadzia, how is that emergency beacon coming along?”   
  
She didn’t answer of course.   
  
He actually missed it-- being crazy enough to ‘hear’ her voice. Crazy enough to ‘see’ her working one task while he worked at the other.   
  
He was too clear headed.   
  
“I think this will--” The wires he held sparked and he growled as a plume of smoke escaped the console. “Fuck. Try, try again, right? OK, what about…?” This time, instead of smoke, there was the low groan of the ship powering down the last few systems. The arrogant, stuttering computer voice seemed to yelp. Then there was silence. After a moment, a faint beep sounded from the back of the ship.   
  
“That’s it.” He grinned, pulling himself out from the innards of the ship console, wiping the sweat off his face. “That’s _it, that’s it!_ Now to transmit on a non-KCA signature. Think you can handle that for me, Jadzia?”   
  
He remembered the broken holo-image.   
  
He remembered his disappointment.   
  
He remembered how long it had been since he’d heard her voice.   
  
“I’ve got it,” he muttered.   
  
It took him another half hour to activate the beacon-- he had to be certain the KCA wouldn’t intercept the emergency transmission. But in the end, he was confident it was transmitting, confident _someone_ would find it, _someone_ would come looking-- even if it was 700 years from now and all they found was his dessicated corpse.   
  
A message scrolled across the screen.   
  
Red.   
  
Angry Cardassian letters.   
  
He could recognize a few Cardassian words when they were being shouted at him. Insults and commands. ‘ _Stop’_ , ‘ _submit’_ , ‘ _worthless Terran’_. The product of having Cardie overlords his whole life. He couldn’t read the Cardassian alphabet though.   
  
But these words…   
  
They were a warning. _Something_ was wrong with his beacon.   
  
He wouldn’t have time to find out _what_ though.   
  
The sensation was sudden and sharp.   
  
It was almost as if he could feel his neurons firing and each jolt was electric-- painful-- down through his spinal cord, his motor functions suddenly not under his control. He was moving-- more precisely, his legs were moving despite the will he attempted to exert over them.   
  
“What? The? Fuck?” He growled.   
  
He was walking, quickly, somewhere.   
  
Away from the ship.   
  
Toward...the caves?   
  
What the fuck?   
  
What _the fuck_?   
  
How was this happening? And _why_? It was as involuntary as an erection, except with an erection there was usually some stimulation. An attractive female figure-- a dream too sexy to contain-- the feel of a certain Cardassian Gul pressed hard up against him?   
  
GRAH!   
  
But this was just force acting on his unwilling body and despite his mind saying _nonononononoSTOPstopfuckingmoving_ , Bashir continued to move. And when he grabbed onto something-- in this case, one of the gnarled trees he passed-- the need to let go, to keep on the  move became instantly painful.   
  
His muscles ached and strained and his head burned.   
  
He’d figured it out pretty quick-- what was drawing him. Well, maybe not _what_. The specific techniques the KCA had used to control him were a mystery. Was it always there? Hiding under the surface? Something implanted in his brain when he was a child? Whatever the case, he didn’t need to understand the science to know the implications.   
  
He had a dog collar strung tightly around his neck-- invisible but formidable-- and he was being _dragged_ back across the planet on a Cardassian _leash_.   
  
At some point, Captain Bashir stopped resisting. Not because he’d given in. He’d _never_ give in. But because it was just too damn exhausting to fight the almost magnetic pull. Besides, those electrical surges were moving his legs anyway. It saved energy to run _toward_ the pull.   
  
Besides, at the end of the leash was the Cardassian, and this time, Bashir really would kill him.   
  
****   
  
Unless someone else did it first.   
  
He found the Gul sprawled on the ground, eyes closed, no obvious rise and fall of his chest.   
  
There was a moment of sharp disappointment.   
  
He was dead. Actually _dead_ and Bashir hadn’t landed the last blow. But… that seemed less important to him somehow in the face of Garak being _dead_.   
  
That meant Bashir was alone.   
  
_Alone_.   
  
He shook his head sharply. It was fine. He’d been alone before. He’d-- Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck. It was _fine_.   
  
He turned away from the body and considered his options.   
  
Not a lot of them, really.   
  
Find whatever had drawn him back to the cave. Get off the planet. Kill more Cardies.   
  
Bashir looked over his shoulder and for a second he thought he saw the smallest movement.   
  
“Are you alive, you bastard?” he hissed, annoyed with himself for the strange note of hope that had permeated his voice. He dropped to his knees next to Garak.   
  
Captain Bashir drew on all the medical training he’d ever received-- practically none-- and decided on the most therapeutic course of action. He smacked the Gul hard across the face and when that didn’t rouse him, he pounded his shoulders and chest, getting angrier with each ineffective blow.   
  
“Wake! Up! You! Fucker!”   
  
He shook Garak hard, watching as his head flopped.   
  
“I thought you moved! Did you-- Grah!” He pressed his ear to the Gul’s chest, the hard rivets of his uniform poking Bashir. Useless! With angry hands he rolled the Gul to his side, trying to make sense of the infuriating Cardassian uniform. He found the place where it fastened together, and managed to open it. Like platemail, it fell away in two parts, leaving in its place, a man.   
  
Bashir frowned.   
  
Garak’s skin was the same cool gray of his face, but more scaled, more ridged. The spoon shape that adorned his forehead, also sat in the middle of his chest.   
  
Just a humanoid under that ugly uniform.   
  
Right.   
  
Heartbeat.   
  
Julian pressed his ear to Garak’s cold chest once again--but this time, unblocked by the Gul uniform, he heard something. A heartbeat. Weak. Or maybe all Cardassians were weak-hearted. It made bloody good sense they would be.   
  
With an angry curse at the alien world in general and another hard punch to Garak’s unmoving form, Julian pulled himself up, moving to check Garak’s breathing.   
  
“I hate you,” Julian muttered. “And don’t think for a second I wouldn’t be happy if something had killed you. But I’d rather kill you myself. So--” The Captain covered Garak’s mouth with his own, and blew out the angriest lungful of air he could muster.   
  
He drew back, breathed, leaned in, and blew again.   
  
Suddenly, firm hands gripped his shoulders, startling him, and pushing Bashir up and away. The Gul gasped in a breath of air, his blue eyes wide, and slowly released it, his hands still digging into Bashir’s shoulders. Then he pulled the Captain down _hard_ and kissed him.   
  
It had been--   
  
A--   
  
Long--   
  
Damn--   
  
Time--   
  
Since someone had kissed Bashir.   
  
God. It felt… It felt… _Good_. Clear headed? No. Insanity.   
  
For one insane moment, Bashir didn’t care whose lips were under his. Bashir just kissed-- thought of nothing, _felt_ everything, and kissed. The contact. The intimacy. It spoke to a place inside him that he’d thought long dead. And when a cool tongue pressed for entry into his mouth, he allowed it. Insane. He was _insane_.   
  
Depraved, he tasted Garak’s mouth.   
  
In a minute…   
  
He’d stop in a minute...   
  
Garak pulled Bashir in closer-- tighter-- and the Captain clawed at his scales, digging his fingers in, consuming his mouth, letting himself be consumed in turn.   
  
How far would it have gone if not for the voice? That cruel, hideous voice that spoke to him from the black void of his mind, taunting him.   
  
_Cardie-fucker_.   
  
For a moment, Julian tried to ignore it, because it felt so _fucking good_ to be held and he wanted to _pretend_.   
  
_Cardie-_ fucker _. You worthless pile of shit, Bashir. Look at you. Look at what you’ve become. He might as well have a_ dog collar _around your neck._ Terran Rebel? _You’re a_ Terran Slave _. A Comfort Woman. You’re his possession_.   
  
It was too much.   
  
Too loud.   
  
He couldn’t make the voice STOP.   
  
And so Bashir used all his strength to rip away from Garak. The Cardassian’s eyelids were half-lowered. He looked...pleased.   
  
Bashir slowly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, furious with himself, with Garak, with this planet, but most of all, with the voice that had shamed him into stopping.   
  
“So where’s the implant?” he hissed. He tapped his temple. “My brain? My spine? How long’s it been there?”   
  
“Not long,” Garak said, his eyes drifting closed. He smiled. So smug. “Since we crash-landed.”   
  
“Right. _Right_. And _how_ are you doing it? ‘Summoning’ me?”   
  
Garak held up a small transmitter.   
  
“I’m going to get that away from you, you know that, right?”   
  
“Oh, I’ve no doubt,” the Gul agreed. “And I love to think _how_ you’re going to do it.”   
  
_He thinks he has you now, Bashir_ , the voice taunted. _You’re his little slut. Congratulations. All of the Rebels would be_ so proud _of you._   
  
“And about the Klingon--” Julian ground through his teeth.   
  
“I told you,” Garak said. “You’re safe. It’s _me_ he wants.”   
  
“Stop,” Bashir hissed. “Just _stop_. There is no Klingon. He’s _dead_. I saw with my own eyes, felt his corpse beneath my hands, _smelled_ him. _Very dead_. Impaled. You lied. Of _course_ you lied. But the _act_. The ‘terror.’ Oh, it’s a thing of beauty.”   
  
“I didn’t _lie_ ,” the Gul hissed, his eyes still closed. “Not about this. Yes, he’s dead, but he’s real enough to end me.”   
  
“A ghost story?” Julian sneered. “Right. The big, bad Klingon has come back from wherever Klingon Hell is, just for you.”   
  
“He has. He wants me to kill you. They _all_ want me to kill you.”   
  
Julian grinned, furious. “Then _kill_ me. Or try. But I’ll remind you-- I’ve got the advantage here.”   
  
Garak lifted the transmitter, pressing a button, and Julian stumbled, drawn toward him by limbs that betrayed him. He snarled and howled in outrage.   
  
“I’d say we’re evenly matched, Captain. Though…” Garak opened one eye and the look was wicked. “The feel of your mouth--”   
  
“I was trying to save your worthless life!”   
  
“--Certainly gives you a bit of an advantage.”   
  
“Would you just--? _Can't you ever be quiet?”_   
  
For a moment, Garak’s mouth-- which had done NOTHING but move since he’d regained consciousness-- froze. The lips slightly parted, unmoving. Then he was  up, his arms around Bashir, drawing him close.   
  
The angry voice in Bashir’s head protested.   
  
“What are you doing?”   
  
“An experiment. See, usually,” Garak mused wickedly, trailing a finger down the side of Bashir’s neck, causing him to shiver, “if one is not interested, one does not reciprocate. But _you_ , my dear Captain, reciprocated.”   
  
A string of expletives left Julian’s lips.  
  
“And I imagine if I were to bring your mouth to mine again--”   
  
“Shut up,” Bashir said hotly, taking control in the only way that seemed sensible in that moment-- No, not attempting to run, or fighting the pull of the transmitter, but instead, being the first to bring his head down hard so that _he_ claimed rights as the kisser and not the kissed.  
  
The internal voice slung angry insults at him, demanding he stop.   
  
Captain Bashir did not stop.   
  
Some worn out spring in Julian’s head had finally snapped, shredding his brain matter, and leaving him all kinds of fucked.   
  
Because the taste of the Cardassian’s lips was just what the Captain had never known he’d always wanted.

  
****


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things just went from mature to **explicit**.
> 
> We’ve got, hmm, weird AF Cardassian anatomy, possessiveness, a bit of under-preparation, and so on… They seem to enjoy themselves, but if you’re not into it, defo skip this chapter.
> 
> Also, if you wondered, I DO have my own, personal illustrations of the Cardassian penis design mentioned below. ~~Um… I have no idea where to host the pic though…~~

_Good._  
  
_So good._  
  
The Terran-- _Garak’s_ Terran-- his prize for maintaining self-control, for choosing to spare Bashir’s life rather than murder him-- was _delicious_.  
  
He'd pushed Captain Bashir down and slowly divested him of his clothing.  
  
And, merciful gods, the man assisted by wriggling free of the garments without protest.  
  
He was probably planning a dozen different ways to end a vulnerable Gul.  
  
Except, Garak was not vulnerable. He had complete control of the situation. As beautiful and captivating as Bashir was-- Garak still moved with caution.  
  
Cautious not to break him.  
  
Cautious not to forget he was bedding the enemy.  
  
Cautious of the ghosts that could strike at any moment.  
  
But how he wished he didn’t have to be _so_ cautious.  
  
He nipped at the supple skin of Bashir’s neck, marking him, sucking hard, drawing up dark welts of color.  
  
“Mine,” he growled. “My delicious Bashir.”  
  
Garak wondered again if other Cardassians had touched his prize. His bitter jealousy spread to all alien males. All alien females. All non-binary lifeforms. Anyone ever who had tasted what was rightfully his.  
  
“I will make you forget them all,” Garak hissed, the sound deep in his throat.  
  
Bashir looked at him with lust-crazed eyes. Perhaps he _wasn't_ plotting murder.  
  
_Oh, Elim. Don't be so naive._  
  
“Your Trill, for one.” Garak pressed the naked Bashir down hard. “What I will do to you, will wipe away your memories of her. Do you understand?”  
  
Bashir growled his response and grabbed a fistful of Garak’s hair, pulling him back into the kiss.  
  
Wicked, perfect pleasure.  
  
“Tell me, Terran,” he groaned into Julian’s mouth. “Has anyone ever _taken_ you?” His fingers teased the taut asscheeks, meeting resistance which did not deter him. He gently stroked Bashir’s thighs, coaxing them apart. Every inch a tiny victory until finally, gloriously, he was splayed before Garak, ripe and ready for the taking.  
  
“I think you would have been much too _proud_ to let someone inside…”  
  
He _needed_ to know.  
  
His fingers teased, circling that tight hole. With the slightest press he’d slip inside. He heard Bashir groan, moving, begging for more. He was taut with pleasure.  
  
“Don't you ever stop talking?” Bashir moaned, his hard cock bobbing as he shoved it toward Garak in a pleading demand for attention.  
  
“Not often. Not when there's intelligence to be gleaned. Though truthfully--” He tugged on the intriguing sex organ and appreciated the guttural sound Bashir made in response. “I've never attempted a non-lethal method of interrogation before.”  
  
“Fuck! Yes! _That!_ ”  
  
Garak was uncertain if Bashir meant the finger teasing dangerously close to his anus or the rather rough way Garak pulled at his cock. A delightful bead of liquid formed on the tip. How quaint. The drop of precum seemed woefully unevolved when compared with the slathered way a self-lubricating Cardassian cock everted.  
  
“This?” Garak asked, giving the man’s length another quick tug. “Ah, but see, you haven’t answered my question yet.”  
  
He released the hard cock, eliciting a whimper from the Captain.  
  
“I couldn’t possibly continue,” Gul Garak mused, trailing a claw down Bashir’s chest. It drew the thinnest line of blood. “Not without knowing.”  
  
“Knowing _what?_ ” Bashir cried, frustrated and writhing beneath him. “Knowing _what,_ Cardie? _What_?”  
  
“Oh, you shouldn’t let your frustrations overwhelm you so. You’ll pay dearly for that slur,” Garak said, positioning himself fully over Bashir and grinning wickedly down at him. He dropped, claiming Bashir’s lips, forcing his tongue into his mouth. He was unmindful of his teeth, the way his claws dug deeper.  
  
Bashir moved against him, desperate for some contact, some stimulation. But oh, how Garak enjoyed denying it. He kept his hips raised, tantalizingly, just out of reach.  
  
Breaking the kiss, Garak whispered, “Why do you struggle so? Is there something you want, Terran?”  
  
Bashir thrashed, desperate.  
  
“P-please!”  
  
“Has? Anyone? Been? _Inside?_ You?” Garak asked, trailing his fingers around the tight hole, teasing, playing at the entrance. How he wanted to plunge himself inside-- to claim the Terran wholly, but patience, patience. From the moment the question crossed his mind, the answer had become his obsession. Regardless, Bashir would be his. But would their joining be a cleansing of all others? Or a claiming of virgin territory?  
  
“Nn…”  
  
“Such a pretty sound you make, Captain, but it is no _answer_.”  
  
“If I _answer_ ,” Bashir growled, “Will you get _on with it_?”  
  
He pressed, and his fingertip dipped inside, the flesh giving, surrounding him. Bashir cried out in pleasure, or pain, it was hard to tell which. He slowly drew his finger back out, as if he had _all the time in the world_. Which, of course, he did.  
  
Raising his head, Bashir shouted, “No! No one has! OK? No, obviously _no!_ You fucking asshole, you Cardie demon! But I’m not going to sigh and blush for you like a goddamn virgin.”  
  
“No one asked you to,” Garak said, deliciously pleased with the answer and shoved his finger, unceremoniously, deep inside.  
  
Bashir’s head fell back and he hissed in pain but groaned as Garak’s hand came to attend to him.  
  
Garak had been mindfully ignoring the pressure building inside him-- lust making him crave the moment of eversion. But watching the beautiful human thrash about and cry out so wantonly, Garak could deny himself no longer.   
  
His cock slithered out, long, hard, dripping wet. So good.  
  
When Bashir saw it, his eyes went huge.  
  
“It's…”  
  
“Yes?” Garak asked, delighting in the expression of interwoven surprise, fear, wonderment, and _lust._  
  
_“Those spines_.”  
  
Garak grabbed one of Bashir’s hands and placed it against the middle knot of his silver-gray cock. “Feel,” he insisted. “They're hard but not sharp. They won't hurt...too much.”  
  
“You say that to everyone you impale on your slimy, spiky, lizard-prick?”  
  
His angry, beautiful Captain.  
  
“I could put it away, if you’d rather.”  
  
Bashir hadn't stopped fingering the knot on Garak’s shaft, tracing each of the blunted spines, feeling the supple way they moved and bent under the pressure of his fingertips. His face was flushed, his lips parted, pupils blown.  
  
“I answered your question,” Bashir reminded him throatily. “ _Now_. _Please_.”  
  
‘Now’ Gul Garak could give.  
  
Garak positioned himself at that waiting entrance, took a moment to savor the way Julian Bashir moved-- desperate-- against him, and then with only a grunt, he shoved the whole of his length inside.  
  
Bashir cried out, bucking up off the cold cave floor.  
  
“Fuck fuck fuck, don’t move,” he begged and Garak obliged.  
  
He took a moment to simply appreciate the hot grip of Bashir’s ass clenching around him, and the frantic way Bashir sought his own pleasure. The Captain’s cock had gone a bit soft during penetration, but as he tugged at it, and adjusted his position beneath Garak, it grew hard again.   
  
“How long shall I wait?” Garak asked, his voice coming out menacing, less playful than he’d intended.   
  
Bashir’s tongue darted over his lips, and with a pleasured grimace, he said, “Now. Go!”  
  
He needed no repeat instruction.  
  
Garak held onto his prize’s hips, and with the lust and energy of a much younger man, he pounded into Bashir. For long moments there was no sound in the cave except for their grunts and moans of pleasure, the wet slap of skin on skin, and the steady _fwap_ of Bashir’s stroking hand.  
  
It was all happening too fast, the rushing tide of orgasm-- but Garak couldn’t have stopped it to save himself or the Terran.  
  
Bashir.  
  
Julian.  
  
He cradled the back of Bashir’s neck, drawing him up-- not slowing his pace-- and kissed him. It was a deep, claiming, possessive kiss that turned into a mutual cry as Bashir achieved, his cock throbbing, spilling his seed out across his stomach. And _bliss_ , how he clamped down then, and Garak couldn’t even pull back past the middle knot for how tightly Bashir’s body held him and then he too, came.  
  
Bashir trembled in his arms.  
  
“I…” He couldn’t make words. “So...so much.”  
  
He would be talking about the ejaculate, no doubt.  
  
For a long time after, Garak held Bashir close, his arms locked around him. He told himself he was keeping close for warmth, or to prevent the Terran from finding a loose rock and trying to bludgeon Garak in his post-orgasmic state.  
  
Lies.  
  
_Sentimental fool, Elim Garak_.  
  
“You’re...still...inside…” Bashir murmured sleepily.  
  
“Just a minute more. Then I’ll clean you up.”  
  
“Not back...in the cave pool.”  
  
“Never.”  
  
_Mine_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're REALLY curious about that spectacular Cardassian cock, you can check it out here: [Cardassian Peen](https://prisdreamsbravely.tumblr.com/post/159379082729/cardassian-anatomy). Fair warning, that link will take you straight to the picture and it is SO NSFW! <3


	12. Chapter 12

The days were short on the planet neither Bashir nor Garak had bothered to name.   
  
What was the point when there were only the two of them?   
  
They were prisoners. The planet was their prison. It didn’t warrant naming.   
  
They foraged. They fought. They fucked.   
  
Sometimes they fled-- when the ghost of Kordd grew close and Garak began to choke and flail.   
  
Bashir had considered Garak as his companion stood rooted in place, arguing with a Klingon long since dead. The side of the conversation Bashir could hear was full of bitter hatred and shouted deprecations in both Klingon and Kardasi. Once he might have mocked the Gul. Now, he only observed, not knowing how he might bring the man’s inner war to an end.   
  
To know that, he’d have to know how to quiet his own mind.   
  
They’d long ago abandoned the cave and, when there was good light and the weather permitted, they worked on building a shelter up against an open rock-face. It was moderately sized and in close proximity to a small stream. Best of all, it kept them from the elements.   
  
It was so...goddamn domestic.   
  
And yet…   
  
Sometimes he woke up, locked in Garak’s arms. Garak did not simply _hold him_ , he _possessed him_. And Bashir would struggle with his thoughts, tempted by the idea of getting up and dressing even though it would mean leaving the warm captivity of Garak’s embrace.   
  
And in those times, despite the usual wasteland of self-loathing that was the captain’s mind, Julian felt almost………. good.   
  
Comfortable.   
  
Still.   
  
Practically _serene_.   
  
He’d be sore as hell with bite-marks _everywhere_ , but on the whole…   
  
Bashir hadn’t known calm in a very long time.   
  
Maybe ever.   
  
The thought troubled him.   
  
Calm was…   
  
Calm _was_ …   
  
“We should name this place,” Garak murmured into his ear, nipping sleepily at the lobe. They had just gone hard on the floor of their shelter and now they lay covered with a thermal blanket recovered from the ship.   
  
The Captain stiffened, his heart thudding heavily in his ears.   
  
The sex and the shelter and the calm and now _this_.   
  
“Name what?” Bashir asked slowly, already knowing the answer.   
  
“The planet. It is _ours_ after all.”   
  
Bashir scoffed.   
  
Garak ignored the outburst, trailing a claw gently down the side of his face.   
  
“Or would you rather it be yours exclusively, Terran?”   
  
Somehow ‘Terran’ had almost become an endearment with him, murmured in the hazy after-moments. That didn’t prevent Bashir from flinging ‘Cardie sonofabitch’ at Garak with all necessary vitriol in moments of intense anger. He had no endearments for the man.   
  
“I’ll give it to you.”   
  
“If it’s _ours_ ,” Bashir said, shivering as the claw trailed lower, “then you _can’t_ give it to me.”   
  
“I would give up my claim!”   
  
Bashir grunted.   
  
“Accept the gift. Name it.”   
  
“I’d rather you gave me that controller,” he said, looking for a fight. This tenderness was all too damn much. He glared away. Before the start of the rainy season, which had come on hard and flooded some of the low-lying areas, Garak had taken the controller that had-- on more than one occasion-- triggered the beacon in Bashir’s brain, and hidden it somewhere.   
  
Bashir had searched.   
  
He’d searched their shelter, the old caves, the crash site, he’d even followed Garak when he went out, hoping to find its location. He’d searched the Gul, too. Thoroughly. Though that often led to him straddling the Cardassian and calling out for Garak and his Maker alike until his throat was sore and his ass dripping.   
  
No controller.   
  
“The name, Terran. Something important to you.”   
  
Bashir glared at Garak, refusing to be a fluff-brained _victim_ to tenderness and romance.   
  
“Dax,” he finally huffed.   
  
Garak’s skin flushed a deep shade of jealous gray. Bashir had seen it before-- his passionately possessive side. The Gul hated the mention of Jadzia. Hated the mention of anyone, really. Not that Bashir was particularly _chatty_. Garak was the one who usually talked.   
  
“You’re so damned insistent I name the planet? All right. I’ll name it after Dax.”   
  
There. That ought to shut down this ridiculous conversation.   
  
Bashir expected a lot of things-- a biting quip or at least a physical bite. Instead a slow, humorless smile spread across Garak’s face. It was ominous.   
  
“Dax, then, how lovely.”   
  
He inclined his head ever so graciously.   
  
“And?” Bashir demanded.   
  
That teasing, trailing clawed hand reached his limp cock. The sensation was too intense, too soon after having come, and he grimaced.   
  
“‘And’ nothing, Captain.” Garak replied mildly.   
  
Anger welled in Bashir, chasing away the last bits of contentment he might have been feeling.   
  
He pulled himself up, felt the questing fingers slide away from his body, and glowered. “I'm going to go check the traps.”   
  
“It's raining.”   
  
“I haven't melted yet,” Bashir said.   
  
He didn't bother dressing, because it was, as the bastard so accurately put it, _raining._   
  
The rain was a warm one-- warmer than the rains of any other planet he'd ever been on-- and as he stepped out into the shower, it pelted his shoulders and soaked his hair.   
  
The closest traps were in a wooded area a few hundred meters away from their shelter. They’d had the least luck with these. There were other traps though, further out and he trudged towards them in a rough arc, checking some of the nearer ones along the way. Most were empty and some had even been sprung by fauna savvy enough to snatch the bait and flee unharmed.

###  He found one small furry creature in one of the farthest traps, and he considered it as it scurried around in frantic circles. It was a burgundy color, with floppy ears and eyes too large for its face.

  
  
“Fuck,” he muttered. It was a tiny thing and too expressive to eat. Besides, there seemed to be hardly any meat on its bones.   
  
Their food stores were running out. Unless they were able to scrounge up some fish, it was either eat this scurrying creature or collect the weird, meaty bugs that crawled out of the ground by the hundreds when the rains let up.   
  
He sized-up the tiny beast.   
  
It danced around.   
  
“If I let you go, you’re just going to get eaten by something that isn’t as sentimental as me, aren’t you?”   
  
It’s big eyes darted around.   
  
Bashir growled, crossing his arms and rocking back on his bare heels.   
  
He either had to kill it and bring its meager meat back to the shelter, or let it go to feed some other carnivore. If he did nothing, it would drown soon. It kept looking up at the sky and then rearing back and shaking as if startled that drops of water were falling on it.   
  
What was he thinking?   
  
Fuck.   
  
_Kill the thing, Bashir_.   
  
It looked at him and made a low noise that he took for a whimper.   
  
****   
  
“What is _that_?” Garak asked when Bashir, dripping wet, pushed his way through the layers of woven-leaves that blocked the entrance to their shelter.   
  
“I don’t know.”   
  
“And yet, you’re _holding it_ , Terran,” he said slowly, cocking his head. “It looks as soaked as you. Have you made friends with the native wildlife of...Dax?”   
  
Bashir huffed and put the scampering creature down. It shook itself fiercely, starting at the head and going all the way to its second set of hind legs. Water sprang off of it, drenching the bare packed-earth floor and, to Bashir’s mild amusement, Garak.   
  
He frowned deeply.   
  
“You can’t possibly think we’re going to eat _that_ ,” he said.   
  
“Nope.”   
  
“So you’ve brought home a pet, then.”   
  
Bashir didn’t dignify that with a response. Neither the “pet” nor “home.” Instead, he began to swipe water from his arm with the side of one hand, making almost as big a mess as the animal.   
  
“And no food.”   
  
Still, Bashir refused to reply.   
  
“Another mouth but--”   
  
“Care to _name it_?” He growled, glaring hard at Garak. _If you want to fucking play house, then you can name the thing._ The Gul gave him a sidelong glance and then motioned him over.   
  
“Sit,” he commanded, pointing at the place in front of him where he had laid the blanket. “And don’t put your filthy feet on it.”   
  
Bashir stood there, naked, now shivering with cold, and glaring at Garak who stared back at him without rancor. Such cool blue eyes.   
  
“Don’t you have a Klingon to run from?” Bashir taunted.   
  
“He hasn’t shown himself today. Maybe he’ll tire... _of Dax..._ and leave this place.”   
  
So, this was the punishment, wasn’t it? Bashir plopped down hard on the thermal blanket in front of Garak, his back to the Cardassian. The little animal he’d brought with him scurried back and forth across the room, sniffing everything, scampering, momentarily freezing and look up at the pair of them, before going back to its exploration.   
  
He didn’t know why he’d taken it with him, but he blamed Garak.   
  
As Garak lifted the edge of the blanket and stroked it roughly along Bashir’s back, drying him, Julian glared away at the rock-face that comprised the back wall of their shelter.   
  
“We should be using our energy to fix the ship.”   
  
“Perhaps,” Garak murmured, moving the blanket to Bashir’s neck. His fingers were warm as they grazed his skin. “Tilt your head.” When he did so, Garak grabbed his hair hard, wringing the water from it. “Do you know much about ship repair?”   
  
“You know I don’t.”   
  
“Ah, well, you seemed so confident, I assumed--”   
  
“Shut up,” he muttered, as Garak gave his hair another sharp twist and then pulled him back into his lap, wrapping him in the blanket. “Anything is better than this!”   
  
“ _This_?”   
  
“Playing...playing ‘happy home’ with _you_.”   
  
Garak’s look was enigmatic. “I didn’t realize. I thought we were ‘surviving.’ Is this life too prosaic for your taste?”   
  
“I hate you.”   
  
A smile spread then, and Garak’s eyes danced. He dug his fingers into Bashir’s jaw and tilted his head back. Then bending, he claimed his lips in a deep kiss. Bashir groaned.   
  
“I hate to be argumentative, Terran”--Garak pulled away a few centimeters--“but you’re the one who decided to bring the Daxian version of a domesticated pet into our shelter.”   
  
Bashir stiffened. “Fucking stop that.”   
  
“Stop what?” Garak asked innocently.   
  
“‘Dax.’ Just _stop_.”   
  
“Ah, but I thought that was the meaningful name you chose for our planet.”   
  
“And that’s another thing, it’s not _our_ planet.”   
  
“Do you know, you’re _quite_ intriguing when you’re furious?”   
  
Bashir shut his eyes and grudgingly admitted that being warm and wrapped in their blanket, with his head in Garak’s lap, wasn’t the worst feeling on Dax.   
  
“Bashir?”   
  
“ _Garak._ ”   
  
“Your new pet appears to be defecating in the corner.”

  
****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAY! After FAR TOO LONG we have a new chapter :) Man I love these two dorks. And now they have a new...friend? Pet? Alien creature? <3


	13. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember when Bashir rigged that emergency beacon at the crash site? Well, someone just received the message.

“Captain,” Suder’s voice trembled with nervous energy. “We’re... we’re picking up a distress beacon.”

Captain Barclay examined his perfectly maintained nails before shining them along the leather of his duster. The slave girls on Hrael VII always did good work. Lazily, he shifted his attention to the view screen.

“Distance?”

“The signal is...is weak. It’s hard to track its exact source. H-half a day at Warp 6, maybe.”

Close enough for a detour if Barclay were so inclined.

Early in his career, the captain had believed distress beacons all brought with them great wealth and reward, either monetary, special favors, or at the very least, the pleasant company of relieved females.

He was no longer so naive.

Any sort of S.O.S. usually meant Terran ambushes and KCA raiding parties; firefights he wanted no part of, and most importantly, _very_ little reward. Neither the KCA nor the Terrans had much worth salvaging, even when they were all dead.

“It’s transmitting on a...strange...frequency.” Suder made for a pathetic second-in-command, which was exactly why Barclay had given him the position of first mate. Such a simpering creature would never try to overthrow him. He thought this _very_ loudly, and saw the Betazoid wince.

Barclay never attempted to hide his distaste.

“It’s...it’s... Cardassian, but it’s not transmitting on any of the KCA channels.”

“How...strange,” Barclay mused, toying idly with the flute he’d plundered from that silly probe years ago.

“And, uh, it’s transmitting in Standard.”

It was about that time that the doors to the bridge whooshed open and in floated Barclay’s muse, his angel, the only person who brought more joy to his existence than he brought himself. He stood and blew a poor imitation of a bosun’s whistle on the flute, hoping to see her smile.

Barclay didn’t attempt to hide his thoughts from her either, even though she was only half-Betazoid. She knew his feelings for her, coy minx.

She gestured vaguely and Barclay moved away from the captain’s chair, bowing to her graciously. In a moment of pique he threw the flute atop a pile of discarded treasures.

“How are you today, Commander?”

She stretched out in the chair, crossing one long leg over the other. She wore a tight-fitting suit of shimmering gold-- Barclay’s favorite-- her hair sheared short, her strong cheekbones accented with color. _Goddess_.

“I’m...bored,” Troi drawled, her accent twining through the words.

Oh, that wouldn’t do at all.

Barclay grinned, taking what should have been Suder’s seat if he relegated to the comm. The bridge was much too large for their small crew-- but the ship was a ‘loaner’-- once they delivered it to their buyer, he’d procure them something more sensible and stealthy.

“Well, we could head to the Battle Arena on Risa.”

“Again?” she asked.

“Or I know you do so love tormenting captives,” he continued. “We could take a look at--”

Her yawn was delicate but pointed.

“What about the comfort women of--”

She shrugged one shoulder, frowning deeply.

“If that doesn’t please you, my dear… Suder’s found a _mysterious_ distress signal.” He drew out the word _mysterious_ , holding it to capture both her intrigue and her pleasure.

“Suder,” Troi said, her expression unchanged. The first officer perked up, his inky-black eyes widening. Barclay was instantly struck with a deep, emerald jealousy as his angel deigned to look at the first mate. “Do you think it would be worthwhile? This beacon?”

“Er, how so?” He shifted uncomfortably.

“Any ‘so,’ you idiot," Barclay barked. "She means any damn ‘so’ at all.”

The pair fell silent and it took a moment for Barclay to realize they were communicating telepathically. He cleared his throat loudly, eyes narrowed.

“Suder! I keep you around to get the better of my enemies.” He huffed. “Not to _chit-chat_ with the heir to the Holy Rings of blah, blah, blah! Don’t think I don’t know you’re _scheming_.”

Suder jumped and turned away.

Another few seconds passed and then Troi lifted her head, a sardonic smile curving her lips. It was not meant for Barclay and he glowered.

“Test the waters with this beacon,” she advised. Motioning at the view screen she added, “Fling a response out there. See what sticks.”

“Uh…” Suder glanced back at his captain.

Barclay huffed. “Well, you heard the lady.”

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the very beginning of this story, the hubs has wanted Mirror!Barclay to make a cameo-- So here's a lil' self-indulgent crossover with TNG and Voyager. I just find Captain Barclay with his crew of Betazoids to be marvelous.
> 
> Of ALL the crimes I've committed in this Mirrorverse, the abuse of the Ressikan flute is the worst. Forgi-i-i-i-ve me!
> 
> Also, hmm... I wonder if our boys really WANT to be saved at this point? ;) Next up, on "The Mirror"...!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gul and the Captain are drunk. Decisions are made... for better or worse!

Captain Bashir and Gul Garak were drunk.

Completely, blissfully, and quite _accidentally_ , hammered.

The crashed Cardassian ship had contained no kanar and they hadn't gone out of their way to distill liquor. While forgetting their troubles with a strong drink might have been a relief, suspicion still simmered low between the pair-- though the murderous impulses had waned.

It turned out, they had no need to brew their own concoctions because the pulp of a certain Daxian plant had done it for them.

Garak had come to expect Bashir to bring odd things with him when he returned from checking the traps. In addition to his pet, the Terran had also found various strange-looking rocks, a sweet-smelling plant which had caused  them both severe allergic reactions and had to be disposed of (along with most of the first batch pelts that they had cured which had somehow been contaminated by the flower), and great handfuls of some sort of furry plant material which he stuffed inside that rag he kept in his bag. On his last trip out, he’d returned with a shirt-sack full of chunky blue fruits. They gave off a foul odor.

“You’re quite the hoarder,” Garak mused as he watched Bashir cut into the fruit.

Watching Bashir was one of his greatest pleasures in this new life. Watching him fish, watching him explore, watching the man writhe in his lap, his face screwed up in pleasure. He could watch the captain forever, given the chance.

“When you come from nothing,” Bashir said with a small sniff, “you tend to find _something_ of great interest. And weren’t you just complaining there wasn’t enough variety in our diet?” He tossed half of the fruit to Garak. “So eat that and shut the hell up.”

They had, so far, been careful when sampling new things-- aware that the wrong plant could kill them. There were bushes on the western border of their search area that seemed to extinguish all nearby life.

In the early days, Garak had sometimes imagined Bashir planned to knock him unconscious and drag him to the bushland and leave him there to die, or to carefully crush up the leaves of the plant they called simply ‘Death’ and put them in his food.

The fantasies had slowed.

They'd almost stopped.

Almost.

There were times...

He was such a sentimental old fool to hope that his Terran would some day no longer wish for his untimely demise. To hope that he could go to sleep before Bashir or wake up after him. Too many years on Terok Nor had taught Garak better, though.

The fruit, it turned out, tasted as foul as it smelled. But it was distinctly intoxicating, hitting Bashir long before it affected Garak. Once they were into their third fruit, they fell into each other, speaking in slurred non-sequitur, and shoveling pulp into their mouths while Bashir’s pet chewed on the hollowed rinds.

“You are _such a strange looking man_ ,” Garak slurred merrily, upending his fruit and dumping the remaining sludge into his mouth. "I do so love your weird face."

Captain Bashir eyed him blearily. “Says the _lizard_ …”

It was a comparison Terrans had made many times before-- though never before in such a merry tone.

“Have you ever considered your ‘lizards’ are merely Cardassian?”

Bashir found this incredibly funny and he guffawed with laughter, something Garak could not ever remember him doing. Granted, at the moment, he couldn't remember much past his own name and how tolerable this fruit pulp had become. He broke open a new gourd and scooped the flesh out, downing it in a single gulp.

He watched Bashir. The man’s whole face transformed when he laughed, and he became even more enticing.

Garak caught his large, smooth hand, greedily pulling it to his mouth and sucking the residue of juice from his fingers.

“Hey, that’s _mine_ ,” Bashir said, his laughter dying away as Garak’s tongue swirled around the salty, messy fingertips.

The man was as addictive as the fruit.

“It's now _mine_ ,” Garak replied smugly. He pulled Bashir closer and gave him a long, off-center kiss, licking more pulp from the man’s full bottom lip. “As are you, my little Terran captive.”

Bashir snorted against Garak's mouth. “I'm _your_ captive?”

“You're _my_ captive,” he agreed.

“You _were_ my captive when this shit all started,” Bashir argued, eyes shuttering under the heavy weight of his lids. “And now I've got you wrapped all around my...my...finger.” He held up his hand and wiggled his fingers.

“That you do, my dear.”

“And what're'you going to do once they hear my distress call? And come to rescue me? And I go back to the Rebels? _Hmm?_ ”

Bashir did not notice the way Garak stilled under the threat.

“You want to get off the planet?”

“Of course,” Bashir said grandly, one hazel eye opening. “Don't you?”

Garak didn't reply.

Bashir's lips curled into a sloppy smile and he grabbed hold of Garak and held fast. "Then you can be _my_ captive again."

****

Gul Garak frowned deeply at the short coded message, while Bashir’s pet gazed over his shoulder with a keen understanding in its eyes.

He’d meant to leave the creature behind, but it had climbed up on him as he walked away from the shelter and clung awkwardly with its six short legs that didn’t seem made for grappling. It had then ridden on his shoulder all the way to the crash site and even when Garak attempted to remove it, it clung fast, chirruping and snuffling all the while.

Garak had considered naming the small beast.

It still defecated where it liked and pushed its way between him and Bashir at night. It also made a weird, low humming noise when it slept, which was very nearly as charming as it was obnoxious.  But it had quickly become a fixture in their shelter.

And yet, a name for it still eluded him.

So ‘Bashir’s Pet’ it remained.

It made a low grunt, cocking its head at the dimly lit screen.

”I can hardly believe he managed to get a message out,” Garak murmured. A distress beacon transmitting on a non-KCA channel. It was, admittedly, brilliant. And surprising the Terran captain had managed to keep the secret so long.

But Garak was quite clever at sussing out the small details about Bashir. Ha! Look at him, extracting information without the threat of death.

But this _beacon_. He had somehow managed to keep silent about it… until, drunk on the strange fruit they’d shared the previous evening, he’d slipped.

Garah had asked-- without really asking-- for Bashir to elaborate.

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t think my message ever made it-- _Nnnh!_ ”

Garak had bitten Bashir’s neck hard, and all conversation was over as they made love on the floor.

He’d found his young lover became sleepily chatty post-coitus, and most of what he knew about the man came from these sleepy after-moments. A well-placed (and seemingly off-handed) question often elicited the information Garak sought.

It was a very brief call for help and had obviously been broadcasting for quite some time, if the transmission’s counter was to be believed. Upon reflection, Garak was not surprised Bashir had wanted-- _still wanted_ \-- to escape. It did not even surprise him that he had managed to route power to the emergency systems and rig the beacon.

But the _reply_ … Well, that surprised Gul Garak greatly.

Garak did not know how long the message had been in the queue, because the ship’s chronometer was down with the rest of the power and because he had stopped tracking the days once he had accepted they were never getting off Dax.

The message was easily unscrambled, the reply brief.

_Do you still require assistance?_

“Shall we answer?” Garak mused aloud, glancing surreptitiously at the creature hanging on his shoulder.

Simply sending their would-be saviors a ‘no’ could either turn the unwanted interlopers away or alert them to their continued existence and bring them post-haste to the planet’s surface. Garak’s mouth turned down at the corners as he considered what that might mean.

For Bashir…

For himself…

For the pair of them.

He clenched a fist at his side and frowned deeply.

Certainly, it would be the end of their happy domestic life.

His thoughts briefly landed on Bashir, whom he had left back at the shelter, skulking off with a lie about checking their traps and gathering wood. He needn’t have wasted his breath. His Terran had grunted and hid his eyes from the sun streaming in through the cracks in the shelter wall.

He’d never understand humans and their delicate heads.

For a moment, Garak considered resigning himself to life off Dax as Bashir’s ‘captive.’ But even if the captain did not kill him, other Terrans would try.

It would be over.

And Elim Garak very distinctly did _not_ want it to be over.

Not just his life, but _this_. What he had here with Bashir.

“I think perhaps it would be easier if we simply _ended the call_ , my strange friend. Any objections?”

Bashir’s pet clung to Garak as he-- with the mildest of cares-- picked up a piece of the torn bulkhead and walked back to Bashir’s small emergency beacon. It might be too late. The interlopers may already be on the way, but on the off-chance they were not--

CRACK!

Garak brought the heavy piece of metal down hard on the beacon, shattering the screen. He reached in and ripped out wires with his bare claws, shredding them like so much grass.

It was done.

Climbing out of wreckage of the ship, Garak saw Kordd. The Klingon stood, poised as if for battle, waiting for him and looming with all his ferocious might. For a moment, Garak simply closed his eyes, and then he addressed the specter in as calm a voice as he could manage:

“I’ve made a decision. I plan to stay here, Klingon. You are welcome to remain as well. But if you could keep to one side of the planet and I to the other, I feel it would be a much more suitable arrangement for everyone. Don’t you agree?”

Kordd, of course, did not agree. He wanted Garak dead.

But Garak, and the small animal scurrying along his shoulders, had somewhere to be and he had no more time to play victim to the ghosts of his past.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Garak announced with a slight bow of his head, “I must be heading _home_.”

****

_Nowhere Near Dax..._

“Captain?” Suder said hesitantly. “That strange signal is...is gone.”

Troi leaned forward and twirled the flute between her fingers. She narrowed dark eyes at the screen. “What signal?” And then, in her mind, “ _I grow bored with speech. For the glory of Betazed, shut your mouth, Suder.”_

 _“Yes, Captain.”_ He was so much more comfortable in his mind anyway. _“Do you remember? A strange distress call-- Cardassian but not on a KCA frequency? I’ve been tracking it for weeks now, waiting for a reply. It’s...gone.”_

With a playful toss, she threw the flute at the pile of treasure. It hit, rolled, and fell almost perfectly into the lifeless hand of the former Captain Barclay. Troi smirked at the picture it made.

_“I find it amusing that you think I would care about any of this.”_

_“Yes, Captain.”_ She had seemed interested once, but much had happened since that time. Suder glanced at Barclay’s corpse and then away.

  
_“Plot a course for Farpoint. I have a few sharp words for that Q, if he’s still around.”_

_****_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder what Bashir is going to do once he finds out he's never getting off the planet... :3


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been _over a year_ but this fic has always been in the back of my mind! Thank you **so much** to those who've been waiting patiently for the conclusion as I sorted through what was one of the toughest years of my life. We're getting near the end now!

Julian slid down off the rock where he’d been perched, not too far away from the crashed ship. He’d tracked Garak from the shelter, waited as the Cardassian destroyed their only means of escape, and watched him announce, broadly to the ghost haunting him that he had no intention of leaving this world and that he was going _home_.

It hadn’t even been necessary for Captain Bashir to hide. So preoccupied was Garak that he walked right past, without even turning his head.

For a long while, Bashir had simply sat in the sun-- his head throbbing-- and considered going in to assess the damage. Anger tugged at the edges of his mind, but the hangover blocked most of it out. When he felt better, he was sure to fly into a rage. For now, his senses were so dulled he could only focus on one issue at a time.

He’d followed Garak hoping, as ever, to be led to the controller. And now, more than ever, that’s where his priorities lie.

A thought suddenly came to the Terran captain as he walked away from the ship with only one last glance.

This entire time he’d been _following Garak_ , hoping to be led to the tracker.

But what if he _ran from Garak_?

Then Garak-- assuming he reacted with his standard level of possessiveness-- would ‘call him back.’

The tracker would have to be on his person.

Julian narrowed his eyes, a half-snarl, half-grin playing about his lips.

_All right, Gul. If that's how you want to play things. This_ _is it_. _This is the Endgame._


End file.
